Witchlight
by Teutonic Titwillow
Summary: Xanos Messarmos has spent two of the past three months dead because a Netherese city fell on him. Nadiya bint-Musud's tribe has been kidnapped by the Zhentarim, leaving her the sole survivor. Together, they prove that the Anauroch is a far more dangerous place than even they could have imagined - and that fate, it seems, has a very strange sense of humor.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes: This is the result of a plot bunny which hopped into my brain late one night, while writing Boreas, and would not go away. Because I needed a break from Rebecca & co, I decided to give it a chance. This is the result. It will be going up more slowly, because I am rather fewer chapters ahead than I would like to be (and am diverting my attention between this and the next stage of Windwalker), but I will try to update regularly._

_For those of you who have read this far into the Windwalker saga, many thanks for sticking with me, even as I rambled on, and I hope that this proves just as enjoyable a ride._

_For those of you who have not read my other fics, two things: I hope that you enjoy this nonetheless, and I hope that, if you like this, you will take the time to give Windwalker (both parts) a fair shake. ;)_

_If you have read Windwalker: Boreas, the main character in this fic will probably be familiar to you. If you haven't read Boreas but have played SoU, you will recognize her home. If you haven't done either, that's fine - there'll just be more surprises in store for you. :D_

_As always, the characters who belong to Bioware remain Bioware's property - I'm just playing with them. Don't worry, I promise to clean them off afterwards._

_Nadiya, however, is emphatically - even violently - mine._

_With that said, let's go on with the show..._

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1.

When I was only a child, my little brother Fayid stole my favorite doll and burned it in the cooking fire.

Her name was Hibah, which meant 'gift'. Our father had given her to me for my fourth nameday, soon before he died. I liked Hibah because her painted face bore what I imagined to be a mysterious smile, as if she knew a very great secret which she would share only with me.

When I found out what Fayid had done to her, I hit him with a stick.

It was not a very big stick, and I did not hit him half as hard as I could have, but still our mother was unhappy with me.

She fussed over Fayid's bruises and then called me into her tent. "Why must you behave so shamefully?" she demanded of me, wringing her hands. "Your father would not allow his daughter to comport herself in such a way."

I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the ground-carpet in our mother's tent. It was red and gold and frayed at the edges. "Our father would not allow his brothers to steal his things," I answered sullenly.

"They are your brothers," she said sternly. "You must respect them."

"Why? Fayid does not respect me. He laughed at me!" I rubbed my eyes angrily. "He burned Hibah, and he_ laughed_!"

Our mother's bracelets jangled as she lifted her hands to cover her face. "Oh, Nadiya, Nadiya. What am I to do with you?" she sighed, sinking into her chair. It was the only one I had ever seen, a prized thing befitting the wife of a sheikh, because wood was so rare in the desert and pieces so large could only be found in trade with outlanders. "Why will you never listen to reason?"

This made me even angrier. "Why will you never listen to _me_?" I cried. "Fayid had no right!"

Her words were quelling. "He had every right," she said. "Now, go apologize to your brother, or you will be confined to this tent until you realize the error of your ways."

I endured for a full two tendays before I finally gave our mother and Fayid my apology and she released me from my confinement.

I told her that I regretted what I had done, and that was true - I regretted that I had not beaten Fayid harder. That way, at least, I would have had the satisfaction of knowing that _he _had been punished for his actions, just as I had been.

He never was. Nor did he apologize, because he has the manners of a goat. All of my brothers do.

Our mother remarried not long after, to our father's younger brother, Hammad. I called Hammad 'uncle', because he _was_ our uncle. He was not our father. Our father was dead, and Hammad always made strange quips that I did not understand, and he looked at me with a quizzical half-smile, as if something about me amused him. I would not be laughed at, even by the man who had inherited everything that had been his brother's, and was now our father and sheikh. I did not smile back.

We all grew older, my brothers and I. My brothers grew taller, but I did not grow very much at all, unless it was to grow wider. I did not look like my mother, who was tall and beautiful and as slender as a reed, even after bearing seven children. My brothers teased me about that, sometimes, and so, when our mother and Hammad were not looking, I kicked my brothers in the shins and pulled their hair until they cried.

Sometimes they told our mother what I had done, and I was punished accordingly. Sometimes, though, when I blackened their eyes or left them limping, they tightened their lips and said nothing. What could they say – that their sister, a mere, pudgy scrap of a girl, had beaten them black and blue?

I did not see why they should be so ashamed. I am the daughter of a sheikh, just as they are his sons. Like them, I am a descendant of the great al-Rashid, who stole the power of the phaerimm and used it to send the great lich-king Kel-Garas howling, like the dog he was, back to his tomb.

My blood is the blood of a warrior's, just like our father's, and his father's, and so on for all the generations of our tribe.

If only my brothers would admit it.

But they are goats. Every single one of them.

I am Nadiya bint-Musud. And I have far too many brothers.

As for sisters, however, I have only one.

_Zebah._

_* * * * * * * * * * * * * *_

Less than a year after our mother married our uncle Hammad, my sister, Zebah, was born.

She was small, like me, but she grew to be gentle and sweet and soft, which was not like me at all.

I loved her so much that it hurt, because my mother loved her, too, for all the ways in which Zebah was not like me. But that was not Zebah's fault, and it was not within me to hate her for it. I loved her like I loved no other living thing.

When Zebah was still very small, I found her sitting in our tent, playing with a ball of light that floated above the palm of her hand.

She looked up at me and laughed. "Look, sister!" she squealed, and spun the ball of light to me. It shone like a rainbow, and its colors splashed the tent's walls like water. "Look what I have done!"

I stared around me, horrified. "Oh, no," I whispered. "Oh, no, no, no-"

My sister's joy faded, a little. "What is it, Nadiya?" she asked.

Shock let loose its grip on me, and I ran to her, falling to my knees on the frayed ground-carpet and folding my hands over hers. "Put it out, Zebah," I begged. "Please, pet, put it out, before someone sees-"

The ball of light flickered and vanished. Tears rose in my sister's eyes. "I am sorry, Nadiya," she said contritely. "What is wrong? Why are you so upset? Oh, do not be angry with me, Nadiya, please-"

I took a deep breath and touched her hair. "I am not angry," I said. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I could not let them fall, because I was the strong one, and Zebah was the gentle one. "But you must never do such a thing, ever again. Promise me, Zebah," I said, cupping my hand against her cheek to keep her eyes on mine. "Promise me."

She nodded, mutely, but there was a question in her eyes. "W-why?" she asked tentatively. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You-" I did not know how to answer her, because she_ had_ done something wrong. She had done magic, which was an evil thing. Everyone always said so. But she was _Zebah_. There was no evil in her. If there was evil in either of us, it was in me, because I could never seem to do as I was told, and sometimes I just grew so _angry, _a thing which I was certain Zebah could never be.

I sank down beside my sister and buried my face in her hair. "What you did, Zebah…it will make them call you a witch, if they see it," I mumbled, my throat burning. And a witch or a sorcerer, among the Bedine, was a risk to the entire tribe. Who knew what curses their magic might bring, or to what evils they might turn to in their lust for power? They would be cast out, for the good of the tribe, and left to fend for themselves in the Anauroch.

_My sister, _I thought. She was the gentle one. She would never survive. My arms tightened around her. "_Please_, Zebah, promise me that you will never do that again."

Her face fell. "I promise," she said reluctantly, and lowered her eyes. "But it _was_ very pretty, Nadiya," she murmured, with a mulish pout that was, for just a moment, very much like me.

I squeezed her shoulders. "Yes," I agreed reluctantly. "It was. But it was also very dangerous." Then I held her hands and stayed with her, in the tent, until our mother returned.

The next morning, I finished my chores as quickly as I could. I took the ripest of figs from the trees which grew by our oasis and spread them on a bed of palm leaves, so that they would dry in the sun. Then I pulled the heavy jugs of water from the oasis and hung them, still dripping, from the center pole of our tent. I rolled up the ground-carpets, carried them from our tent, slung them over ropes of woven sandgrass, and beat them free of dust and sand, one at a time. It was dull work, but then I pictured the face of our ancient enemy, Kel-Garas, in the weaving of each carpet. I imagined that my beating-branch was a gleaming scimitar, and that I was the sheikh's most trusted warrior, sent to fight against the great lich. Then the work went by much faster, and the dust rose like a cloud.

Once that was done, I snuck away from our mother before she could think of something else for me to do, and I hid in the branches of an ironwood tree near the edge of the oasis, so that I could watch my eldest brother, Ali.

He was practicing his swordplay with Hammad, both of them shirtless in the quickly warming air. The ringing of their steel was a familiar song, one which I had heard every morning for as long as I could remember. There were men gathered around the two of them in a loose semicircle, watching and joking and calling out advice to the sparring men. I would have liked to be among them, but I did not dare. Our mother's punishment would be the least of the shame I would have to bear, if I presumed to sit with the warriors.

So I hugged my knees to my chest and watched from afar. I could not look away. It was so graceful, the way they fought. If not for the sharp shiver of steel in the sunlight, you might have thought that they were dancing.

I noticed that I was not the only person watching. Ali was many years older than I was, and when he shed his robe and shirt to practice the sword, many of the younger – and even some of the older – women of our tribe found some urgent need to draw water, or to harvest fruit from the fig and pomegranate trees by the oasis, or to sit and pretend to weave baskets. I knew that they were pretending, because the baskets departed no larger or closer to completion than they had arrived.

I sniffed, and turned my head away. They were goats, as well. Ali may have been our future sheikh, but he was _my _brother, and I, for once, agreed with our mother. Those women had no shame.

Without thinking, I pulled a leaf from a nearby branch and began to tear it into tiny pieces, my eyes still on my brother and uncle. They were both sweating, though Hammad seemed fresher. He was also a head shorter and much stronger and stockier than Ali, who was as lean as a leopard. He proved it, too, when he left a thin red welt across Ali's chest in retaliation for a poor counter.

_You swung too far down_, _and too hard,_ I scolded my brother silently. The move had left all but the tip of Hammad's sword free, but had left Ali's mired down by his side. _He is too strong. You need to hit closer to the hilt, or he will recover too quickly._

Absently, I tore another leaf from the tree. Then, all at once, my blood went cold, and my hand went to my mouth in horrified dismay. The leaf fluttered earthwards, seeming to scold me for my thoughtlessness.

_This tree is sacred._ All of them were, in our oasis. Trees grew so rarely in the Anauroch that ones such as these were held to be blessed by the spirits, and were never to be touched unless to harvest their fruit, and then only after sprinkling the roots with water from the oasis, to make up for what would be taken. _Spirits forgive me. What have I done?_ Oh, I was stupid, stupid, _stupid_!

I reached for my belt knife, fumbling it in my haste. Biting my lip, I opened my palm, and set the tip of my knife beneath my thumb. _Stupid, _I thought, and, squeezing my eyes shut, pressed down quickly and sharply.

Then, just as quickly, I twisted around on my branch and laid my bleeding palm against the trunk of the tree, my eyes tearing with the pain. I wanted to whimper more than I wanted to speak, but the gods and spirits of Mother Desert were known to be vengeful, and the words had to be said out loud if the spirits were to accept them. _I am a descendant of al-Rashid, and it is only a little cut, _I reminded myself sternly, and spoke. "Spirits of this place, take my blood as repayment for my act," I whispered. "I beg your forgiveness, and accept your anger as my due."

_There, _I thought in satisfaction. Then, because I did not want to risk angering the gods twice in one day, I wiped the blade of my dagger on my robes, sheathed it, and climbed down from the tree, wincing at the sting from my cut hand.

Once down, I shook my robes out so that they covered my legs again. If our mother found out that I had not only desecrated a sacred tree but had been seen exposing my skin to the world at large, I would _never _hear the end of it.

Someone cleared his throat, making me freeze in mid-crouch like a startled doe.

Ali smiled at me. "What a strange fruit to have fallen from an ironwood tree," my brother remarked, gently teasing. "What _have _you been doing all morning, little sister?"


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Ali slung his robes over his shoulder and regarded me, his arms crossed over his chest. "Have you ever considered brushing your hair?" he asked lightly.

I straightened up and scowled, feeling my face redden. I plucked a twig out of my hair and dropped it to the ground. "It is fine the way it is," I said sulkily.

My brother lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "Fine? You look like sparrows have been nesting on your head," he countered, though he said it very gently. His eyes moved downward. He frowned, and stepped forward. "What is this?" he asked, his voice suddenly becoming concerned. He reached for my hand. "Nadiya, what has happened?"

I remembered my cut hand, too late. Awkwardly, I hid my palm in the folds of my robes, and said, "N-nothing. I am well-"

"You are bleeding," my brother disagreed. He took my hand in his, ignoring my weak and half-hearted attempts to pull it back. "Nadiya! Did you cut yourself?"

"Y-yes," I agreed hastily. "My knife…I…it slipped." My cheeks warmed even further, and I felt tears prickling behind my eyes – at my lie to my brother, and at the fact that my treacherous face would not let me lie without giving me away. "I-it is nothing, Ali, truly-"

My eldest brother frowned disapprovingly. "It will become something if it festers," he said, and stood, laying his hand on my shoulder. "Come with me, little sister. I will take you to our mother. She can tend that cut for you."

"W-what?" I stammered. "Oh, no! No, Ali, it is nothing…I will clean it myself! Look, the water is right here!" I babbled desperately, waving my hand vaguely at the oasis behind us. I _could not_ let him take me to our mother. Then our mother would ask what had happened, and then I would flush, and stammer, and get angry, and she would keep asking until I broke down and told her what I had done, and then she would confine me to our tent. _Again. _

Worst of all, if Ali insisted, our mother might make me brush my hair. I did not _want _to brush my hair. It would never look as sleek and lovely as my mother's or Zebah's, so what was the point in bothering? "Ali, please do not make me go-" I begged.

He stared at me for a moment, wearing an expression of concerned perplexity. Then he sighed, and relented. "I will take you to our mother's mother," he said, shaking his head in amused resignation. "But you must agree to come. I will not have my sister's hand fall from her wrist because she was too foolish to get her wounds tended to."

I hiccoughed, and hastily rubbed the heels of my hands against my cheeks, wiping away tears. "Y-yes, Ali," I agreed, relieved beyond words, and let him lead me to the tents.

Before we reached the tent circle, I slowed, biting nervously at one of my fingernails. "Ali?" I asked hesitantly. "I-I have been meaning to ask you-"

He slanted me a curious glance. "Yes?"

I lowered my hand and crossed my arms over my chest. "The gift of the phaerimm," I blurted. "Is it magic?"

Ali blinked. "No," he said, bemused. "Of course not. The gods have forbidden us to use magic-"

"Because the sorcerers of the Three Ancient Tribes summoned the djinn of N'asr, who made war on each other and turned the old fertile lands into desert," I finished. I remembered the stories, as well as he. Then my forehead furrowed in a frown. "But…we are not like the other tribes, Ali. When the caravans come, sometimes, there are mages, and we do not turn them away like we should-"

My brother's voice was sharp. "We are still Bedine," he said, in tones which brooked no argument. "We may be duty-bound to tolerate some things which the other tribes may not, but we are _Bedine. _ And Bedine do not use magic. Magic broke the world and murdered the old gods. It is an evil thing."

My cheeks flushed at his reprimand. Still, I persisted. "But…I thought…the stories say that the gift of the phaerimm undoes the magic of Kel-Garas-"

My eldest brother lifted an eyebrow, frowning. "Yes," he agreed slowly. "That is true. That is what keeps him trapped within his tomb."

I bit my lip, thinking. "Then…if it undoes his magic…would that not mean that it _is _magic, itself?" I ventured. It seemed a sensible conclusion – after all, how else could magic be fought if not by magic? That was why Bedine mages were forced to leave their tribes, because there could be no defense against their magic – was it not?

Ali sighed. "Nadiya, what is this all about?" he asked. His lips twitched. "I know you, little sister," he added. "This is obviously leading up to something. What is it?"

My face was turning red again, Lathander take it. "I…I just wanted to know," I said lamely. Tears were coming to my eyes again, as well. I had hoped…I did not know what I had hoped. All I knew was that Ali had never made fun of me or thrown my things into the cooking fire, like my other brothers had. I had thought he would listen. I had thought that, if our tribe's gift was like magic, then Ali, who had the gift, could not consider magic fully evil, because that would make him evil, and that was unthinkable. I had thought that, if my eldest brother, who would be sheikh when Hammad died, did not believe magic to be an evil thing, he could stop the others from casting our sister out. "It was nothing," I added, my voice sullen. Then, because I had listened to _some _of our mother's lectures on being mannerly, I thanked my brother for escorting me and ducked into our grandmother's tent.

It was too warm, as always, so many oil lamps lit that it seemed that the camel-hides were one breath away from going up in flames. It also smelled strongly of verbena and poppy, and other things I did not know the names of but all of which made me want to sneeze.

There was a stooped form in the tent, sitting on a low cushion and plucking at the thread on a loom. It sat with its back to me, silent, and so I shifted uneasily from foot to foot, sweating in the sweltering heat, and waited for our mother's mother to acknowledge me.

Eventually, the old woman looked up, her dark eyes as sharp as needles. "So," she said. "One of my granddaughters. Which are you? The soppy one, or the sullen one?" She looked at my face, and chortled. "Ah, ah. Looks like the sullen one."

I tried to look a little less angry, so as to prove her wrong, but I _was _angry, so it was impossible to look otherwise. "Ali brought me here," I mumbled, and showed her my hand. "I...I cut myself."

She chuckled again, and beckoned me closer. "Angered the spirits, did you?" she asked, and took my hand in hers. Her skin was soft and papery, and her fingers stabbed and prodded at the cut in a way that made me grind my teeth together. "What did you do?"

When she let go of me, and turned to reach for a pot of salve, I sighed in relief. "I…I tore a leaf from one of the sacred trees," I said, breathlessly.

She shook her head and sighed. "Ah, ah. That's it?" She clucked her tongue and began to dab salve on my hand with unusual force, for such an old hag. "Well, you did your penance, so now you must pray that you sated the spirits, and take whatever punishment they give you, eh?"

I frowned defensively. "It was only an accident," I mumbled sourly.

The old woman snorted. "Hah! Accident or no, you did wrong, and now you will be set right." She bandaged my hand, her wizened old fingers binding the cloth quickly and surely. "No fear, child," she went on, glancing slyly at my face. "Mother Desert is harsh, but she knows the blood of her own. We are her children. We accept her right to punish us, but we can ask great things of her, too." She tied off my bandage, and leaned back, her sharp eyes going distant. "Very great things…"

I cradled my hand to my chest, looking at our grandmother sideways. "Will she give them to us, if we ask?"

The old woman's eyes darted back to me, and she smiled like a knife. "If you pay the blood price, she will," she told me. Then she patted me on the hand. "Now go, sullen girl. Your ancestor is tired, and needs her rest."

I knew when I was dismissed. As a girl-child – as a _sullen _girl-child – it was my place to go when the men or the grown women said that I must.

I went away, slowly, gnawing my lower lip and tugging at the knot on my new bandage. The air outside the tent was cooler, but I knew I would have to drink something to replenish my body's water before the heat of the day came to steal the rest of it away. I did not know how our mother's mother had survived to her age, keeping her tent so hot like that. Perhaps the gods favored nasty old women. Perhaps the gods _were _nasty old women. It would explain a great many things.

I trudged back to our tent, my head full of spirits, and gods, and liches, and blood, and the singing of birds.

_Wait, _I thought suddenly, and lifted my head, confused. _Birds? What…_

Then I froze, horrified. There _were _birds, everywhere. Wrens hopped up the windaway, chirping, and doves perched on the poles, cooing. Swallows swooped overhead, grackles squawked and pecked at the hides, and, worse of all, _they were all over our tent._

I stared, horrified. It was already midmorning. Most everyone was either outside of the tent circle or, like our grandmother, already inside their tents, but the rest would be returning to their tents before long, before the heat of the day rose in earnest.

If anyone saw this, it would be taken as an omen. Suspicions would be roused, and, where ill omens and magic were concerned, not even the family of the sheikh could be held above suspicion. At best, we would be watched. _Zebah _would be watched.

That thought broke my paralysis, and I ran, waving my arms and shouting, at the tent. The birds broke apart in a flurry of wings, scolding me, but most did not come back, and only took their perches farther away, watching me. I ignored them, and hurried towards the open tent flap.

I tripped over a pheasant at the entrance to the tent, and shooed it away. "Go, go!" I cried, and clapped my hands at it. It lurched into a clumsy run, flaring its wings and whooping indignantly.

Once into the shade of our tent, I stopped dead. "Zebah?" I gasped.

My sister jumped guiltily, and the wren that had been sitting in her palm whirred past my head, chirping frantically. "Nadiya!" she exclaimed. Tears rose to her eyes. "I could not help it, Nadiya. I w-was just lonely, and they came here, and they were so lovely, I did not want to send them away-"

I snatched a stray feather out of the air and stared at it, my heart sinking so far that I thought the ground must have swallowed it. "Zebah," I whispered. "What happened?"

She blinked, and wiped her eyes, and hugged her arms to her chest. "I do not know, I just…called," she whispered back, meekly. "And they came."

I could have wept. In front of Ali, I might have. In front of Zebah, I did not dare. I was the strong one. I had to be strong, for her. "You cannot let it happen again, Zebah," I said hoarsely. Suddenly breaking loose of my shock, I strode forward, kicking the birds' leavings out of the sand with my foot and then tugging the carpets over them. Then I began collecting feathers. "Help me clean this, before our mother gets here," I begged my sister. "She cannot see this-"

My sister's eyes flashed with sudden, stormy upset. "But I did nothing wrong!" she insisted. "All I did was call the birds, Nadiya! I did not hurt anyone. Why should I be afraid?" Her voice rose. "You tell me I should never do these things, but you never tell me what is so bad about them. You never tell me _why_!" she cried, and, at her cry, I heard the crack of shattered clay, followed by a great splash of water.

I spun, to see what had happened. One of the jugs of water had split, right down the middle, and had gushed its precious contents all over the carpets. As I watched, the last few drops beaded on the clay's broken edge, and fell to the floor.

"Oh, no," I heard Zebah whisper, behind me. "Oh, no. I am sorry, Nadiya. I…I did not mean to do that. I am sorry…I should not have questioned you. You were right. Please do not be angry with me. Please?"

I could not be angry with her, and told her so, stroking her hair and murmuring words of comfort as she wept contritely. She was no longer asking why she should not have done what she had done, but, in my head, I answered her.

_If the others catch you, they will kill you, Zebah, _I thought hollowly, but did not say, because she was the gentle one, and she would crumble under the weight of that knowledge. _Our mother, Hammad, Ali…everyone. They will tie you hand and foot, and they will put you on a camel, and they will take you into the middle of the desert, and they will leave you there, with nothing but the clothes on your back. And you will die._

_And I will not be able to stop it._

Outside, I heard voices. I thought that one of them was my mother's. _Oh, no. Spirits, no. _Hurriedly, I took the carpet beater from its place by the door and hefted it in my hands. I thought it was heavy enough – certainly capable of breaking a clay jug. "Be quiet, sister," I cautioned Zebah. "Say nothing."

She nodded, mutely, her face still streaked with tears, and I waited until I heard our mother's footsteps, just outside the tent.

Then, taking a deep breath, I swung, as hard as I could.

Our mother entered the tent to tinkle of breaking clay, to see me standing beneath the hanging jug with the carpet beater in my hand.

Her dark eyes went wide. "_Nadiya!_" she cried. "What are you doing?"

I could not think of a lie, though I tried. So instead I tightened my lips and raised my chin, saying nothing. What could I say?

Our mother stared at me a moment longer. Then her face went grim, and she took me by the wrist. "Impossible child," she huffed, and hauled me towards the door. I did not resist. "Shameless! Wilful! Thoughtless! Do you have any idea of the damage you have done?"

I went to my punishment, listening to our mother's scolding and hearing our grandmother's words echo in my head. _Accident or no, you did wrong, and now you will be set right._

I had angered the place spirits of the oasis, and this, I supposed, was my due.

I could only hope, as my mother raised the switch, that this was my full punishment, and not a sign of things to come.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

When Zebah saw the stripes on my back, she wilted like a lily left too long in the sun. Gently, she cleaned the switch-marks, and bandaged them, and nothing more was said about magic for a very long time.

For many months, and then a year and more, we grew, my brothers and sister and I. My brothers were trained as warriors and hunters, and I saw them seldom, a thing for which I could only be grateful – though I did miss Ali, who only seemed to grow busier and busier as Hammad meted out more and greater responsibilities to him. I spent what time I could with him, but he was dealing in the business of men, and I was just a girl.

Zebah grew taller, while staying as slender and lovely as a gazelle. I stayed neither slender nor lovely, but I was content enough, as long as Zebah was not inviting danger and our mother was not especially angry with me.

Then, when I was nearing fourteen, my first blood came, and our mother kept me very near our tent thereafter.

"Do not think that you have not been seen, sneaking off to watch the men practice, or dogging your brother Ali's footsteps wherever you may," she chided, sinking into her chair and pinning me with a censuring stare. Then she sniffed, and I shrunk into myself at her disapproval, as I always did. "Well, no longer," she told me firmly. "Your brother may have chosen to indulge your childish antics, but you are a woman, now. You must at least _try _to behave like one."

I lowered my head, picking at a loose thread in the cushion on which I sat. "But I do not want to," I mumbled sullenly. It _was _childish, and probably not befitting a newly-flowered woman, but I said it anyway.

Our mother arched her eyebrows. "Want does not enter into it, Nadiya," she said calmly. "Had the gods intended for you to be a warrior, they would not have given you breasts."

I sighed. The will of the gods could not be defied, that was true, and they were known to be fickle. Still, I wished that they had not made their wishes quite so _clear_. Day by day, it seemed, my robes grew tighter across my chest and hips. By rights, they should also have grown shorter, and looser about my waist, so that perhaps my brothers would no longer laugh at me and compare me to a D'Tarig - those squat and ugly wild men who often tried to raid our oasis - but that did not happen. My waist remained as thick as ever, while the rest of me only grew even thicker.

Our mother interrupted my musings by taking her hairbrush from the low table by her chair and wagging it at me sternly. "Now," she said. "The first thing we must do, I think, is to brush all of those snarls out of your hair." She tapped the hairbrush against her knee, imperiously. "Come here, Nadiya."

I nearly toppled from my cushion. "No!" I shrieked, horrified. "No, no, no! I _will _not!"

Our mother's expression was long-suffering. "Do not be ridiculous, child! Why must you insist on looking as if you have been raised by jackals?" she asked in exasperation. "You are the daughter of a sheikh! You cannot remain in your father's tent forever, and I will not see you settled on some herd-boy because you traipse about with your face a mess and that bramble thicket on your head!"

I did not want to be settled on anyone. It seemed to me that a husband was a very troublesome thing to have underfoot, at best - and a captor and tormentor far worse than any of my brothers, at worst. My only hope was that if I did not comb my hair, and if I bit my nails to the quick and did not wash the dirt from my face, no man would ever want to marry me.

Besides – there was no point in trying to make myself look pretty. I would never have Zebah's perfect, doll-like face and her strikingly pale eyes, nor would I be as tall or as graceful as our mother. That was why I frowned, and crossed my arms over my chest, and said, "I will not. I will stay in the tent, I promise, and I will not watch the men, but I will…I will cut my hair, first!"

Our mother blanched. "Nadiya-" she said faintly.

I saw my advantage, and seized it feverishly. "I will!" I cried, and put my hand on the hilt of my belt dagger. "I will shave myself bald, if I have to!"

The weary expression which flitted over our mother's face made me feel guilty, but I would not give in. "This discussion is not over, child," she warned me.

Our mother spoke the truth. Over the next months, she did all that she could to persuade me. She cajoled. She commanded. She pleaded. She even tried to bribe me, with fewer chores, or with easier ones, but I would not be moved.

I would churn butter from goat's milk until my shoulders groaned, and I would scour the cooking pots with sand until my knuckles were raw, and I would work the loom until my fingers bled, but I would not allow our mother to unravel the tangles in my hair, and she would continue to gaze despairingly at my ragged, too-short fingernails and smudged cheeks. "Nadiya, Nadiya," she sighed, and passed her hand over her face. "What am I to do with you?"

I did not answer. What could I say?

On a night not long before my sixteenth nameday, I found myself seated next to an oil lamp, sleepily carding goat's wool – sleepily, because it was a truly boring enterprise. Zebah was sitting next to me, hip-to-hip, patching a hole in one of our brothers' robes. She had a much finer hand with a bone needle than I did. I usually made bigger holes than the ones I was meant to patch.

Outside, a man shouted. I looked up, dropping my handfuls of wool onto my lap.

Our mother glanced over at me. "Pick that up, Nadiya," she chided. "Pay attention, child. This will be the last shearing in quite some time. The herds are not doing well this year."

I barely heard her, though I did pick the wool up again. More men were shouting. Someone ran by the tent, their footsteps quick as the beat of a bird's wings.

Now even our mother was frowning, and Zebah had lowered her mending and huddled next to me, nervously. "What do you think is happening?" she said fearfully.

Our mother and I exchanged glances. "Stingers," she said at last, matter-of-factly. "Or laertis, perhaps. It has been long enough since they last tried to raid us." I found myself nodding in silent agreement. Our mother was right. Stingers, or the lizard-men we called laertis, or the short but fierce D'Tarig, were the most likely invaders.

It would not be one of the other tribes. The other Bedine gave us a wide and wary berth, though they were welcome to share our water. They thought us cursed, and did not want to partake of our misfortune, which _I _thought very strange. We were not cursed. It was our honor which bound us to watch Kel-Garas, the duty laid on our great ancestor al-Rashid by the phaerimm from which he had won his power, and the other tribes should have been grateful that we were here to protect them from the lich.

Perhaps the other tribes had all been driven mad by sunstroke, because they had no shade trees in the deadlands. It would have explained a great deal.

Outside, the men began to whistle, shrilly, their calls echoing across the night-time oasis.

At the sound of the whistles, our mother put aside her own work. "Come, then," she said calmly, and rose from her chair with a regal grace, drawing her heavy belt knife. "To the outlander's temple, girls. Let us leave the men to their work."

Zebah scrambled to her feet, clinging to my arm. "Y-yes, mother," she acquiesced meekly. I could feel the terror pouring off of her. She had never handled these raids well, which made me worry for her. She had ten namedays to my sixteen, and it was well past time for her to have lost her childish fears. We were the children of the Anauroch, and she would never stop testing us, to be certain that we were worthy of her gifts. It was the way things were, and it would be best if Zebah could come to accept that.

Besides – we were women and children. Our place was in the temple of Lathander, the only stone structure in our oasis. The stories said that an outlander priest had once come among us, half-dead from thirst, and had begged to be allowed to build his god's temple here. I had never entirely understood why our ancestors had allowed it, though it was said that Lathander hated all things undead, especially liches. Perhaps that was why. Or perhaps the priest had been very persuasive. _Or perhaps our ancestors saw the use for stone walls, at times like these, _a much more practical inner voice mused.

I patted my sister's hand absently, feeling an odd excitement. It had been some time since anything had attacked us. The men had been complaining about the lack of something interesting to fight. I wondered if Ali had found an opponent worthy of practicing his swordwork on. I hoped so, for his sake.

Then, sighing, I picked up a lamp and followed our mother out into the night.

The sounds of fighting were louder, outside, and they came from all around. I felt the first flicker of alarm. _They have gotten past the wadi, _I thought, and narrowed my eyes. The campfires had not been doused, and they made it hard to see into the shadows beyond them. _They are around the tents. _That was strange, but not unheard of. I would have drawn my own knife, but Zebah was clinging to my free hand, and I did not have the heart to deny her that reassurance.

Ahead of us, our mother stopped. She seemed to be looking off into the shadows beyond the tents. "Zebah, Nadiya," she said, her voice still calm and quietly commanding. "When I give you the word, I want you to run for the temple. Quickly."

I looked, to see what she was looking at, and saw slow, shambling shapes moving in between the tents. One of them moaned, a sound that put me in mind of a man in agony, but there was no awareness to it – only the pain.

My spine prickled. I _knew _these things. It did not matter that I had never seen them before. I had heard of them in every night-song, in every chant that the men sang while practicing their swordplay or when running into battle. Rhymes told of the many forms of horror the lich's army took, and I had skipped rope to the ways in which the horrors could be killed.

We sang the songs, and kept a flame in the temple for Lathander, who hated all things undead. We wove the knowledge into our carpets, and painted the old warnings on our tents. We _knew, _because we were duty-bound never to forget.

_Zombies, _I thought, a sick and despairing excitement settling into my gut. _The Soulless Ones._

_They have come back._

Our mother waited until the zombies were nearly within her reach. Then she glanced over her shoulder at us, crouched slightly, held her knife out in front of her, and snapped, "_Run!_"

There was no arguing with that tone. I obeyed instantly, abandoning decorum and hitching my robes up to my knees so that I could run faster. Zebah stumbled along behind me, holding fast to my hand.

Halfway to the edge of the oasis, I slowed. _She did not say not to look back, _I argued with myself, and craned my neck to look over my shoulder.

Our mother had not followed us. She was still there, holding two of the zombies at bay with quick, crosswise slashes of her knife before retreating a few quick steps, drawing them after her. _She is going the wrong way! _I realized, aghast. Then a second realization followed on the heels of the first, making me feel sick. _She is _leading_ them away!_

I bit my lip, hard, tasting blood, and looked back at the oasis. There were other women and children, all running as we should have been. Their progress was quick but orderly, the older women shepherding the younger with the ease of long practice.

Our mother should have been doing the same. But she was not - the zombies were too close, and she was the wife of a sheikh. She would not run. She would stay and she would fight so that we, her children, would have the time to run. That was the way of things.

_No, _I screamed inside my head. _That is _not _the way of things. She is my mother!_

I sucked in a breath, my heart suddenly thundering, and spun to Zebah. I gripped her shoulders and stared into her pale eyes, which were wide and frightened. "Run," I told her firmly. "Run, and stop for nothing." She was shaking her head. I raised my voice. "Listen to me. The undead are slow. If you are quick, they cannot catch you." They certainly could not catch her as long as they were otherwise occupied - at least, that was what our mother had been hoping, and what I was hoping, as well. "Do you understand?"

She nodded, hesitantly. "B-but…Nadiya…you-"

"I will come after," I promised. Then I gave her a push, just enough to get her moving. "Go. Join the others."

Then, once I saw her join the others, I hoisted my robes and ran back the way I had come.

One of the zombies had fallen, and our mother was leading the other on still. Her face was set grimly, but she was limping, and sweat shone on her forehead.

I ran past a flickering campfire, my shadow writhing strangely on the tent walls. _Fire, _I thought, remembering the old songs. _They can be killed with fire._

There was a sandgrass torch lying on the sand, where someone had dropped it in their rush to respond to the attack. It was nearly burned down to nothing, but it was all I saw to use, so I picked it up and thrust its head into the flames.

Then, as I turned, I heard the smack of flesh into flesh, and saw our – _my - _ mother drop to the ground without a cry.

I had no memory of crossing the intervening space. All I recalled later was _anger,_ and then, moments later, seeing the zombie's back rise up in front of me.

I hit it with the torch.

The flesh was soggy and bloated, and would not catch, but I kept the torch there, quick-stepping sideways over the sand even as the zombie tried, clumsily, to turn to hit me. _Come on, come on, burn, burn! _I thought silently, because there was no way my tongue would form words, with the anger burning in my throat.

The zombie's flesh began to catch. So, as the fire began to consume the last remnants of the torch, did the sleeve of my robe.

I thought of letting go of the torch. Then I realized that I could not, because the zombie had just barely caught, and if I let it go now, I would not have another chance to kill it.

My robe caught much better than the zombie's flesh. The heat was bad, until it reached my skin. Then it became agony, and seared my vision with red.

_Oh gods, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, _chanted the litany inside my head, but the thing had hurt my mother and it was unthinkable that it should not die for that, so I held on to my torch until I saw the flames creep to the zombie's flesh and begin to lick upwards hungrily.

Then, quite suddenly, it caught, and the thing began to shrivel and blacken. It smelled foul, but I did not mind, because the thing was dying, and I had won, and the sense of triumph turned the stench into something sweeter than roses.

Something else smelled, too. It smelled like burning fibers and meat, but much less putrid.

I looked down at my arm. _Oh, _I thought, with a strange sort of delirious calm. _I see. The smell is coming from me._

I heard running footsteps, and felt a large hand on my shoulder. "What-" said Hammad's voice. Then it stopped. It roughened. "_Asra_," it said, and Hammad fell to his knees by our mother, the slight smile he always wore gone from his face. "Asra, love-"

Our mother stirred, and opened her eyes. I thought she murmured his name, but I could not tell, and I only noticed that she was sitting up, with our uncle's help, her arm curled about her chest and her face pale, but her eyes were clear, and her eyes…

…her eyes were on me, and they were going very wide indeed. _"Nadiya!_" she cried, and struggled to rise, batting away Hammad's restraining hands. "Child! What has happened! Are you-"

I did not want to interrupt her, because it was not very mannerly, and she had tried to teach me to be mannerly, but the pain was really quite bad. "Mother?" I said weakly. "I…I do not feel very well."

Then, blessedly, I fainted.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Many days blurred past, after that. They carried me to our tent, laying me behind the woven curtain which shielded our sleeping area from our living area, and our mother's mother came and went, with all of her salves and potions.

They washed my arm in cold water, which was very bad. The skin was red and blistered, and black in places.

Then they bandaged it, which was worse.

_I am the blood of al-Rashid, _I reminded myself, as they began to bind my arm. _I will not cry. I will not-_

The pressure on my burned skin was unbearable. Wrackingly, I began to cry and try to twist away from their hands, but that only made it worse.

"Nadiya," our mother said softly. I felt her sit down next to me, and pulled me to her breast, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. The smell of crushed jasmine enveloped me, familiar and soothing. "Nadiya, Nadiya," she sighed, resting her cheek against my hair and rocking me gently. "What am I going to do with you?"

I did not know. But the pain was a little easier to bear, with her there.

I slept for many days, on and off. When I was awake, Zebah was there, fussing over me and changing my bandages with her gentle hands. Our mother was there, too, and when it hurt too much, she stroked my tangled hair and sang songs that I had not heard since I was a child.

Eventually, I was allowed to escape from my blankets long enough to walk down to the oasis and bathe myself, for which I was grateful.

I was less grateful when I finished my bath, pulled my robes over my head, and finally took a good, long look at my arm. I stared at it, at the angry red skin, and the sinking blisters, and the way a wide swath of the skin on my forearm was twisted and melted-looking, and I started crying again.

I had always known that I would never look like Zebah or my mother, but now I had the scars to ensure it. Though it was silly and childish, the tears would not stop, and I found myself mourning the loss of my last, feeble hopes for ever being beautiful.

It was there that my brother Malik found me. "Nadiya," he said, and rattled his scimitar at me mockingly. "I hear that you have been fighting the undead for us. Brave, for a little D'tarig! How did you do it?"

I glared up at him through a tangle of wet hair. I wished that I could think of something just as hurtful to say to him, but I never could, when my brothers chose to mock me like this. The anger and the humiliation always stole my tongue. "Leave me be, Malik," I said instead, sullenly, and turned my face away.

"What? Are you afraid to show your face to me, little sister?" He leaned close, and, before I could think to cover it, he was staring at my arm. "Why, you should be afraid to show any part of you, now," he chuckled, amazed. "That is very ugly, sister. Tell me, did you hope to catch a lizard-man as husband, with skin like that?"

I jerked my arm away, covering it with my sleeve. "I _said _leave me be," I said between clenched teeth.

He did not. "I would not worry, if I were you, little sister," he said, and patted my shoulder in a way I thought very insulting. I twitched my shoulder away from his hand, and he laughed. "It is well known that no man has offered for you yet, anyway. They are all waiting for little Zebah."

_That _did it. I rose to my feet, feeling my face flush as red as a sunset, spun, and lashed out with my foot.

My aim was good, and Malik was too stupid, too _arrogant _to think to defend himself against me. My kick connected with the side of his kneecap, and he fell with a startled yell.

I moved to stand over him as_ he_ made to rise to his knees. I would have liked to slap _both _of his cheeks at once, but I had only the one good hand. Instead, I drew my uninjured hand back and set my shoulder to give him a good smacking with the one hand I _did_ have available to me.

Before I could do so, however, a much larger hand closed around my wrist. "Nadiya!" Hammad said heartily. "There you are, oh bramble-headed one. Well, come with me, then!"

I twisted to look at him, amazed and thoroughly confused. "W-what? But-"

He seemed not to have even noticed Malik, who was kneeling, frozen and rapidly reddening with humiliation, on the ground. "But what?" Hammad inquired innocently. Then he_ did_ look at Malik. "Ah! I see that you have been reunited with your dearest brother. Well, leave him there. He will keep, for now." Then, without waiting for a response from either of us, our uncle took me by the wrist and pulled me away.

I tripped after him, my mouth agape. "Wha…come with you?" I asked wildly, forgetting all of my courtesies in my bewilderment. "Why?"

"Why?" We reached a quiet, well-hidden place behind a copse of acacia trees, where Hammad stopped, released me, and spun to face me. "Why, because you are a mannerly young woman who obeys her father, of course!" he exclaimed. Then he cocked his head at me and gave me a sardonic look. "No? Do you mean to tell me that you are not?"

My eyes narrowed. "You are not my father," I blurted. Then I clapped my hands over my mouth, horrified at my own insolence to the man who, no matter how I felt about him, was still our sheikh.

Yet again, Hammad seemed not to notice. "True," he agreed blandly, and a smile flashed across his dark face. "For this, I give thanks to the gods daily…although sometimes I wonder if the gods might not be having a very large joke at my expense," he added meditatively.

This…was not what I had expected. My hands fell from my mouth, and, because I could not think of anything else to say, I repeated myself. "W-why?"

He lifted an eyebrow at me. "Why?" he echoed, and laughed. "Because I find it more than passing strange than my brother's dull and rather plodding loins should have produced such a ferocious little creature, whereas mine have produced naught but milksops." Then he made a negligent gesture. "Well, no matter. Your sister is a lovely young woman. She will make some man a very delightful bride."

I felt a ripple of indignation at this. "And I?" I demanded.

"You? _You _will make some man tear his beard out, hair by hair. Either that, or you will knife him in his sleep."

My back stiffened at his tone. "Why do you mock me?"

He laughed again. "Why not?" he asked flippantly. "The whole world is ripe for mocking, my dear. The sooner you realize this, the better off you will be."

I stared at him, and I felt as if the ground on which I was standing was shifting under my feet. Who was this man, and what had he done with Hammad?

I no longer knew what to make of our uncle. He still smiled in a way I found very aggravating, and made odd quips, and he was still very much unlike his brother, our father. I was not certain if I liked this.

But…when our mother had lain injured, he had called her _love, _in a voice very unlike his usual, mocking tones. And, sometimes, when I lay in a doze in our tent, I thought I had heard him say my name softly, and felt the weight of his hand on my forehead, gentle as a kiss.

We had seldom spoken to one another in all the years that I had lived in his tent. That he should choose to speak with me only in my sleep, was…confusing. That he should choose to speak with me now was doubly so. And that he should choose to speak so frankly, and to not so much as scold me for what I had been about to do to Malik, was enough to leave me speechless.

Our uncle appeared to grow impatient. He laid a hand on the hilt of his scimitar and began to pace. "Do you know why I have asked you to come here, Nadiya?" he asked me.

I blinked, and answered truthfully. "No."

"No?" he echoed, and then his quicksilver smile flashed across his face. "Well, then! Here, let me show you," he said, and drew his scimitar from its scabbard. He spun it, so that it faced me, hilt-first. "Catch!" he commanded brightly.

Then he threw the scimitar at me.

Automatically, I tried to catch it, but I reached out with my injured right hand, and the way the skin pulled across my wrist and forearm made me clumsy. The hilt only bounced off of my fingertips. The blade would have landed on my toes and chopped them off in one fell swoop, too, if I had not had the barest presence of mind and jerked my foot out of the way.

Hammad and I both stared at it. Our uncle spoke first. "I told you to catch," he said mildly. "I did not tell you to stab yourself in the foot. Please try to concentrate, Nadiya."

Blushing like a lit torch, I stooped and grasped the scimitar's hilt. The weight was strange in my hand, the blade bobbing uncertainly and the leather-clad grip turning in my hand, because my palm was slippery with nervous sweat. I did not understand what he was doing, or whether he was toying with me, or… "Why?"

Our uncle chuckled merrily. "You are full of pestersome questions, aren't you?" he asked conversationally. "Pester, pester, pester…oh, very well, I will tell you why," he gave in with a sigh of mock exasperation. "I do not want to have to explain to your mother why I have allowed you to skewer yourself like a kebab, _that _is why."

I blinked. Against my will, I thought I had begun to smile. Why was I smiling? This man was mad. That must have been why we had never spoken before – I would have discovered that he was sick in the head. "No," I stammered, "I mean…why am I holding this?"

Our uncle raised his eyebrows at me and grinned. "Because, having seen what you can do with a torch, I am curious to see what you can do with live steel," he said simply. Then he cocked his head at me inquiringly. "What? I thought you wanted to learn to fight. Do not tell me that you have lost your nerve now, oh bramble-headed one. I will not believe it."

My mouth opened and closed several times. Lost in befuddlement, I retreated to what I had always been told. "Women are not warriors," I said automatically. "It is unnatural."

"No?" His voice was mildly curious. "No, I suppose not - though I have met a great many outlander women who naturally excelled at doing a great many unnatural things." For some reason, he smiled very roguishly at this. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, his smile vanished, and his face turned uncharacteristically serious. "No, I see that you are not convinced. Very well, if my words cannot convince you, we shall try the truth!" he said heartily, and, clasping his hands behind his back, he began to pace again. "I cannot always be there to protect your mother and your sister," he announced abruptly. "My duties preclude it." Then he stopped in front of me, and smiled like a fox. "But you…you, oh bramble-headed one, have shown a surprising capacity for violence, and a great willingness to use it to defend those close to you. I would be remiss if I did not put it to good use, myself."

If before I had been befuddled, now I was confounded. "Y-you want me to-"

"To fight with the men? No. That would get me fed to the vultures in bite-sized pieces, blood of al-Rashid or no. I know the limits of my authority. I am not my brother. I am only his younger, fatter, stranger replacement." He snorted. "But, to protect your mother and sister? Yes. I will arm you." His eyes darkened. "I will not leave them vulnerable to another attack such as that last one."

Something in his words snared my attention. I looked at him, warily. "You believe that there will be others like this one, then," I said.

He paused, looking at me speculatively. His eyes gleamed with mirth, and with something else I could not identify, something softer than the razor-sharp amusement that I normally saw there. "Perhaps you do have a brain beneath that swallow's nest on your head, after all," he murmured.

I felt a deep flush paint my cheeks. Again. As usual. "I am not stupid," I mumbled.

His response shocked me. "No," he said easily. "You are not." Then he flashed me an infuriating grin, and added, "You are only sulky, and unreasonable, and do not like to do as you are told." He gestured at the scimitar in my hand. "Now, I suppose that the first order of business is to save that blade from the indignity of being held like a sewing needle. Spirits, child – how will you ever fight if you let your wrist go limp like that?" He saw the look on my face, and laughed. "Oh, yes," he confirmed. "I am willing to train you - on one condition."

There were no words for the hot, buoyant hope that was rising in my breast. I had never hoped to be allowed to hold a real blade, not even to protect myself, and the weight of the scimitar in my hand was heady and strange. "Condition?" I echoed, trembling with nerves and disbelief and excitement. "W-what condition?"

Hammad gave me a long-suffering stare. "Comb your hair," he ordered bluntly. "For your mother's sake, and also for mine."

At that, I blinked. I had to open and close my mouth several times before words came out. "W-why for yours?"

Hammad rolled his eyes. "Because if you do not give her this, I will _never_ hear the end of it," he said drily. Then he knelt, and lifted his hands, beckoning with his fingers. "Come. I will show you how to hold that," he said, with surprising gentleness. "Oh, and, Nadiya-"

I stepped closer, clutching the scimitar in both hands. "Y-yes?"

Our uncle grinned at me. "If any of your brothers insult you again, you have my permission as your sheikh to punch them right in the nose."

I stared at him. Then, slowly, widely, I smiled back. Then I bowed deeply. After all, our mother had taught me to be polite. "Yes, my sheikh," I said obediently.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

When I came back from my first sparring session with Hammad, our mother was waiting for me.

She looked at me, and my sweaty face, and my tangled hair, and her own lips thinned. "That man," she huffed in exasperation. "I must have words with him. He could at _least _have encouraged you to clean your face."

My exhilaration faded into dismayed embarrassment. "Are you very upset?" I asked in a small voice, wrapping my fingers in the folds of my robes.

She stared at me. Then, resignedly, she sighed, and pushed her hair away from her face. "I would like to be," she admitted quietly. Then her lips twisted wrily. "But my dearest, most maddening husband spoke truly."

I blinked. "Why?" I asked blankly. "What did he say?"

She rolled her eyes heavenward. "He said that you would be attacking zombies with your teeth if we did not bow to the inevitable and give you a real weapon." Then, still smiling, she shook her head. "He was right."

That _did _sound like something Hammad might say. "I am sorry," I said at last. I didn't know what else to say.

Our mother's face smoothed. She shrugged. "It is as it is, and will be as it will be," she said fatalistically. Then, sadly, she smiled at me, and held out her berringed hands. "And, as it seems that _I _cannot protect you, my only hope is that Hammad can train you to protect yourself."

The guilt swept over me, then. "I am sorry, mother," I said brokenly. I took her hands, stepping into her arms and burying my face against her shoulder remorsefully. "I am sorry. I saw you fighting, and I could not run away-"

She stroked my hair. "Do not be," she said, her voice lightly teasing. "I have a very good and dutiful daughter – even if the duties she performs are not necessarily the duties I have asked of her."

I sniffled, and stepped away. Avoiding her eyes, I looked about the tent until I had found what I was looking for.

Our mother's hairbrush was in its usual place. I picked it up and, still looking at the floor, held it out to her. "Will you?" I mumbled.

After a brief pause, she took the brush from me. "Certainly," she said, and I heard the smile in her voice.

Then our mother sank gracefully onto a cushion, and tugged another cushion to sit in front of her. She patted it. "Sit," she commanded, and rolled up her sleeves. "Let us see if we can get those tangles out without utterly ruining your lovely hair."

My hair was certainly not lovely, but I would not argue with her. Obediently, I sat, and – my eyes watering from the way it made my scalp sting - allowed our mother to pull the snarls out of my hair.

The next morning, Hammad gave me a scimitar from the tribe's stores. It was not as well-balanced as his, and the hilt was plain steel, wrapped in cobra's skin, but it was my own, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Every night, before sleeping, I huddled behind our tent, where no-one would see me, and I polished the blade, admiring how it glowed in the light of the moon.

I sparred with him early each morning from then on, there in the copse of acacia trees. I was forbidden to speak of those sessions to any but our mother and Hammad or Zebah, who lived too closely with us to be kept in ignorance and who, though the others did not know it, knew very well how to keep a secret. Nor could I wear my scimitar openly. Not even my brothers could know, or see a sword in my hands – word travelled quickly, in our small tribe, and it would not do to let it be known that our own sheikh had so abandoned tradition as to teach a woman how to fight.

"If I am to be trussed like a goat for the roasting and gutted like a pig, I would at least like it to be for something worthwhile," Hammad told me. Casually, he sidestepped my slash at his thigh and slapped my sword down. His strike wrenched it out of my grip, and it fell to the ground with a noisy clatter. "Having made love to your mother atop al-Rashid's tomb in broad daylight, perhaps, or having learned a spell to shoot lightning from my arse. Now _those _would be offenses worth dying for." Then, while I was turning bright red at his words, he grinned at me mockingly and pointed to my scimitar. "That is a sword, Nadiya, not a javelin," he chided me. "Please pick it up, and _try_ to stop throwing it at me from now on."

Because it could not be known that I was receiving training in swordplay, I still bore my full load of morning chores, and I set to them while my arms still trembled with exhaustion from being made to swing steel, first in my right hand and then, when that arm tired, in my left. After the first day, I thought I would never be able to move again. After the second, muscles that I had not even known I had screamed in protest at my every move.

Drawing water became torturous. Churning butter became agonizing. Beating the dust out of carpets became impossible, because by then my arms felt like two bladders full of water, and would not rise above my shoulders, no matter what I did. Picking figs and pomegranates was equally problematic, because that, again, required lifting my arms. I tried raising one arm with the opposite hand, hoping that, between the two of them, I might still be able to reach upwards, and that worked sometimes. Most of the time, though, it did not.

But not all of my new routine was so hard. When our mother saw my difficulties, she loudly announced that she had some weaving for me to do, and shepherded me into our tent, where I collapsed gratefully in front of the ground-loom and shuttled camel wool into a blanket. I wove many blankets over the next months, until my arms grew strong enough that my usual chores were no longer so exhausting.

One day, Zebah plucked at my robes, frowning. "Your shoulders have grown very broad. I will have to open the seams again," she remarked bemusedly. Then she measured my waist with her hands and tugged the fabric together in the smell of my back, clucking. "I will have to take these in at the waist, as well," she added. I felt her touch my arm lightly. "My goodness, Nadiya. Your training is giving you very impressive muscles. Soon, I think you will be as strong as a man!"

Our mother twisted to look over her shoulder at us. She pursed her lips. "Nadiya is strong because she has been working very hard at her chores," she corrected Zebah pointedly. "Even here, I would not like to hear you speak otherwise." Then, unruffled, she turned back to her work.

Zebah bent her head contritely, blushing. "Yes, mother," she said meekly. Then she plucked at my robes again. "I would almost like to…to do what you do, if this is the effect it has," she murmured enviously. "My shape does not go out and in and out again the way yours does, Nadiya."

I hunched my shoulders forward and crossed my arms over my chest, self-conscious. "Oh, gods, no," I groaned. My shape did not go _in _around the middle nearly as much as I would have liked, and it was impossible to fight without binding my breasts, I had found. If I had to bind them any tighter, they would end up at my chin. "You do not want this, Zebah. Trust me. You do not." I grimaced. "Besides," I added, glancing at our mother and lowering my voice for Zebah's ears only. "Hammad is a hard master, and drives his students to exhaustion. You would not like it."

Zebah was silent for a long moment, her fingers busily tucking here and pinning there. Then she came around to stand in front of me, her back to our mother, and began tugging at the fabric across my chest. "You can call him Father, you know," she murmured to me, her lips very moving. Her expression was as mild and sweet as ever, but there was a look in her eyes that, for some reason, reminded me of our mother.

I grimaced and waited until our mother had stepped out of the tent with an armful of linens before replying. "He is not-" I began to object.

Zebah interrupted me. "He _is_," she said with quiet firmness. "He is married to our mother. That makes him our father." Her eyes turned sad. "And, if he is not your father, then I am not truly your sister, Nadiya. I would not like that."

I could not bear that thought, or the forlorn look on her face. Impulsively, I took her hands in mine. "You _are_ my sister, heart and soul," I told her. "Do not be absurd, Zebah. You will always be my sister. "

Her expression eased into a smile, and she embraced me, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing my cheek in return. "Then he is our father," she whispered in my ear, and drew away, smiling and shaking her head at the no doubt disgruntled expression on my face. "He _is _kind, Nadiya," she insisted. "I have heard of what goes on in some other tents, when the men are cruel and thoughtless. We are blessed to have a gentle father, one who cherishes us. Our mother is blessed to have a husband who worships the ground on which she walks. Why will you not see it?"

I scowled. "I do not know _what_ he is," I complained. "He weaves me 'round in words until I hardly know what he is saying any more."

My sister raised her eyebrows. "That is because you do not listen to the words behind his words," she chided me. She stepped back and looked at me thoughtfully, and then gestured for me to remove my robes - carefully. "He does love you," she went on, her voice gently reproachful. "I see the way he looks at you, when you will not look at him. It pains him that you do not call him Father, but he will not say it, because he knows you are stubborn, and will only turn further against him if he presses you."

I turned red. Blessedly, my head vanished in my robes as I pulled them over my head, which hid _some _of my embarrassment, at least for a few moments. "Zebah-"

She draped my robe over her arms and sighed, her eyes on my face. "I am upsetting you," she said contritely, and shook her head, turning away. "I will not insist," she decided. Then she gave me a glance through her hair, her gaze both warming me with its affection and making me squirm, because it was far too knowing. "But he _does _love you, Nadiya - no matter what you call him. I know it."

I had no reply for that, and our mother had returned, anyway, so there was no way to continue our conversation. It lingered, though, and when I next sparred with Hammad, I thought of it, and I let myself smile at a few of his jokes. Not many...but a few. If he noticed, he gave no sign, though he did lay his hand on my shoulder when we were done, which he had never done before.

Not all of our days were so peaceful, though. Hammad had been right. Not only did the attacks from the undead continue – they grew in number and audacity. More troubling, as the attacks grew, our water diminished.

It was not unheard of for the oasis to rise and fall. The desert never remained the same, its seasons were often unpredictable, and we were accustomed to living on lean rations from time to time. But it usually did not last so long, and now the animals were dying, too. Some of them sickened, often dropping where they stood, dead as stones. Others had not sickened – they had been found of a morning, bellies slashed open and their entrails strewn all over the rocks.

The other animals would not come near those ones. It was said by many that the animals knew the taint of a zombie's claws when they smelled it, much more surely than humans did. Perhaps they were right. Whatever the case, we burned those carcasses and buried the ashes, though it cost us dearly in meat and milk and blood. Better that we sicken from the lack of food than sicken from the lich's touch, however, and so the dead went to the fire.

More and more often, the men of the tribal council paced in the center of our tent at all times of the day, discussing what to do. Their voices were always tense, and I listened to them from my place behind the partition, together with our mother and Zebah.

They argued over possibly tightening the tent circle, or perhaps moving the women and children to the safer quarters of the temple. They argued over perimeter guards. They argued over who would guard the tents at night, and how many, because that was when the dead usually came, and it was impossible to keep all of the warriors on watch all of the time. Shifts must be decided, lots drawn, and they argued over whose sons would take the less desirable day shifts and whose sons would have the honor of facing the undeads' night-time forays.

Then, when their voices grew quieter and I could no longer hear all that they said, I knew that they were talking about the water, and our dwindling food supplies. I knew that they were talking about Kel-Garas, and what he was doing to us, and what we should do in return, because if the lich could reach out and drain away our water, he would win this oasis without having to fight a single battle.

On one of these nights, the men eventually left, as they always did, having spoken of all they would speak of, for now. Only Ali and Hammad remained.

I laid aside my mending – it was impossible to see what I was doing in this light, anyway. We had to save our oil and butter for food, not for making light.

"It is weakening," Hammad said abruptly. "You can feel it, can't you?" Through the curtain, I saw him comb his fingers through his hair, leaving it disarrayed. "Gods damn him. He knows. He tests us."

Ali shifted slightly. He was outwardly calm, especially when compared to Hammad's frenetic pacing, though I who knew him saw the tense set of his shoulders, and the way his long fingers tapped nervously on the hilt of his scimitar. "Do you think it is his doing?" my brother asked quietly.

Hammad snorted. "I have no idea," he said frankly. "Would that I did. I am sick to death of all of this arguing. We should be _doing _something, not blubbering into our beards about the shame of defeat before we have even been defeated."

I saw Ali hesitate, uncertain. Then his jaw tightened. "What would you have me do?" he asked abruptly.

Hammad uttered a short, sharp laugh. "Ideally?" he asked. "I would have you leave here, find an army of Lathanderite clerics and a few hundred good paladins, and send them at the lich. Tell them that their very valuable temple is at risk if they do not come. I am sure they will come. Outlander clerics value their temples quite highly." He shook his head and resumed his pacing. "But that is not possible," he muttered. "If I bring in any outsiders, the other men will hang me from the tallest tree they can find, and then they will choose a sheikh who will indulge their suicidal tendencies. Bah! A worst pack of fools I have yet to meet. And I am related to most of them, more's the pity."

Ali's voice betrayed his unease. "You think we cannot fight him alone?"

Hammad's smile flashed like a knife. "We can always fight."

"But can we win?"

Our uncle shrugged. "Perhaps," he said calmly. "Perhaps not. It would be certain, if…" He trailed off.

Ali cocked his head and went very still, in the way he did when he was thinking hard about something. "Would the phaerimm know?" he asked suddenly.

Hammad stopped his pacing and turned to stare at Ali incredulously. "You propose finding that beastly thing and, what, asking it what it has done to our power?" he marveled, and laughed. "Tell me - do you expect it to answer before or after it has sucked your brains from your head?"

My eldest brother shrugged. "The legends are clear enough," he argued. "Al-Rashid was wise enough to have the directions carved on his tomb, so that we could return to the phaerimm's place at need. Now we have need. I will be able to find it, at the very least, and the tales do say that it was not unwilling to talk. So I will talk to it."

Hammad stared at him. Then he barked a laugh. "Brave boy," he murmured.

Ali sighed. "Hammad, I am twenty-six. _And_ married."

"I know. I had to pay the blasted girl's bride-price. And I am _still_ older than you, and you are still my son, so I will call you boy," Hammad retorted. He resumed his pacing. "Very well, then. You wish to find it - find it," he shot back over his shoulder. "Ask it what has happened to its boon."

Ali bowed in acquiescence, his dark eyes troubled. "And if it has decided to take its boon away?" he asked.

"Remind it that we had a bargain. Well…al-Rashid did. Perhaps it would behoove you to take his corpse with you, so as not to confuse the creature. Stick your hand in the back of his skull and make it talk. Tell me, do you know any ventriloquism, boy?"

My brother laughed softly. "You are incapable of being serious, Hammad," he said, with surprising warmth.

At that, our uncle's smile faded. "In that, I think you are wrong," he said quietly. Then he laid his hand on my brother's shoulder. "You are intent on doing this, hmm?" he asked.

Ali nodded slowly, and his fingers tap-tapped against his scabbard. "I think I am." His face tightened. "I do not like knowing that it is fading, and not knowing_ why_. I like it no more than you do."

"Very well." Roughly, Hammad embraced my brother and kissed both of his cheeks. He had to stand on his toes to do it. "You are too tall," he said gruffly, and shook a chiding finger at Ali. "I do not like it. I should cut your legs off at the knee."

Ali returned Hammad's kiss and clasped our uncle's forearm. "When I return," he said lightly. "You may shorten me as much as you deem appropriate, oh sheikh."

"I look forward to it." Our uncle let go of my brother's arm, turning away briskly. "Go to al-Rashid's tomb," he commanded. "Leave his skull where it is, but take his sword."

Ali looked startled. "Are you certain?"

"As certain as I can ever be. It does us no use moldering along with his bones, and we are not yet likely to find worse dangers inside the oasis than_ you_ will outside of it." Hammad lowered his voice to a mutter. "We are not _that_ far gone."

Ali lowered his eyes in acknowledgement of the order, and bowed deeply. "I will go immediately," he promised.

Hammad nodded curtly. "Good. Take what supplies you need." He made a face. "Determine whichever of our camels is furthest from the verge of collapse and take it with you. You will travel faster that way. Oh, and wear the marks of our tribe when you cross the Saiyaddar, else our brethren there may try to steal your camel out from beneath you, and you will be forced to waste valuable time and dull al-Rashid's blade in order to persuade them not to."

Ali nodded, and, without any further ado, he vanished in a sweep of robes and the rustle of our tent's flap.

Hammad looked after him for a moment, not moving.

Then, still without moving, he spoke over his shoulder. "You can all stop eavesdropping, now," he said mildly. "Come on. Come out and tell me what you think."

Our mother rose and stepped around the partition. "Hammad," she said. Her voice was simultaneously steely and amused. She appeared to be trying not to smile. "You will have your jokes at our expense, I am sure."

He laughed, and turned. "I know my women," he replied blithely. "They have very large ears. Fortunately, they also have unusually still tongues." Then he grinned at our mother. "Except for you, my love," he added dulcetly. "Your uncommonly agile tongue is a blessing for which I thank the gods daily."

Our mother turned as red as a sugar beet. "Hammad!" she snapped, in a slightly strangled voice. "Not in front of the children!"

"Well, no, of course not. Perhaps later, then?" His grinned turned roguish, and he stepped forward, giving our mother a look that I did not see but which made her turn an even darker shade of crimson. "Will you meet me by the water's edge, my beloved?" I thought I heard him murmur, and lifted a hand to touch a lock of her long, dark hair. "Will you wear flowers in your hair?"

Our mother put a hand to her throat. Her lips tightened with disapproval, but her eyes were soft and bore a very, very strange look in them. "Hammad," she scolded him sternly. She sounded breathless. "Behave yourself."

"Shall I take that as a yes?"

_"Hammad." _

Zebah leaned over to me, confused. "What are they _talking _about?" she whispered in my ear. I shrugged helplessly, equally confused.

Whatever our mother and Hammad were about, however, it seemed to have been concluded, for now. Our uncle gave our mother one last look and then turned to me, suddenly brisk. "I must go. If we are to move you to the temple, I must go knock some skulls together until the council agrees with me," he announced, and shook a finger at me. "Watch over your mother and sister, Nadiya." He paused thoughtfully, and added, "Mostly your mother. Truth be told, the little one seldom pulls her own weight around here. She just sits on her cushion and looks charming. We may be better off without her."

Zebah stamped her foot indignantly, looking very much like our mother in her exasperation. "Father!"

Hammad laughed, and tugged on her hair. "I am only teasing, little Zebah," he said fondly. "Do not get your pretty locks in a tangle. You might come to resemble your sister."

My face turned red. "Uncle!" I protested hotly.

He looked back and forth among us. "Ah…perhaps I should be leaving now, before I am murdered in my own tent," he announced blandly. He kissed our mother on the lips, and he kissed Zebah on both cheeks. Then he came to me, and hesitated, looking at my face with one eyebrow raised. "You, I will not kiss," he decided, and wagged a finger at me. "You bite." Then, before I could stop him, he kissed me anyway, once on each cheek. His beard tickled.

With that, Hammad swept out, much as Ali had done, and left us alone.

Our mother, Zebah and I exchanged glances. "Well," our mother said at last, and from the netting near the roof of our tent she began to pull down poles, hides, and the sandgrass ropes which would be used to lash the two together and make litters. "You heard your father." She pursed her lips. "All of our belongings will not fit in the temple proper. We will have to choose what stays and what comes with us. Zebah, help me tie these together."

Zebah was already moving, unquestioningly obedient. I paused, frowning at our mother. In the privacy of our tent, I had belted my scimitar around my hips, and now I wrapped my hand around its hilt, for the reassurance that it gave. "Do you think he will persuade them?" I wondered.

Our mother cocked her head, listened to the argumentative voices raising once again outside our tent, and smiled. "He will," she said. "Eventually." Then she draped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. "The men will do as they must, and we will do the same, child," she said quietly, and let me go, brushing her fingers down my cheek as she did so. "It is our way." Then, faintly, she smiled. "Now, unless we are being attacked right at this moment, I will need you to put down your sword and help me pack, Nadiya."


	6. Chapter 6

6.

We moved to the temple, as our mother had anticipated, setting up our blankets between the great stone columns and our pots and looms and stores of food near the walls, so that we need not sleep so close to so much stone.

We brought our cushions and carpets, to make the place feel warmer, but it did not do very much good. The quarters were dim, and the stone had a hard, dank chill to it that seeped into my bones even during the heat of the day. I understood that the stone made for a strong shelter, but I had spent my life with nothing but carpets and camel hides between me and the sand and sunlight, and I did not like the grim, heavy feeling of the outlander temple.

Nor did I like sharing quarters with all of the other women. They giggled and gossiped about things I had no interest in, and they had never truly drawn me into their circles. I was the sheikh's daughter, so they would not insult me, but I had always been considered _odd_ and standoffish, and I had never made any friends among them. Nor did I make any friends now. I sparred with Hammad at dawn, helped our mother with the morning and evening chores, and spent the rest of my days outside, perched on a high rock in what shade the cedar tree next to it still offered, waiting for Ali to come back.

I stared at the wadi until my eyes felt like they had been peeled and boiled, but my watch saw no reward. The tendays yawned ahead of us and behind us, all with no sign of my brother.

The drought grew worse, and we began to ration carefully. The goats died, because we could not afford to give them enough water. The sickest of the camels were butchered, and only the healthiest kept for their milk. All but the hardiest of plants turned brittle and brown, and our mother tasked the women with harvesting what fruit could be harvested and drying it for long storage.

While Zebah casually hung a blanket in front of me, to hide me from the other women's eyes, I belted my scimitar over my robes and shrugged a mantle over them to hide it. Then Zebah and I went down to the oasis.

The oasis was muddy, the water halfway down its sides and reflecting the sand more than it did the sky. Leaves floated on its stagnant surface, fallen from the dying trees.

Zebah looked at the oasis as we passed, a bladder full of camel's blood bouncing from her hip. She walked very gracefully, I noticed, and at twelve namedays, she was already near as tall as I was. "There is so little left," she murmured. Her eyes were troubled and fearful. "What will we do if he takes it all, Nadiya?"

I did not want to think of that. "We will find a way," I said shortly, trying to sound confident.

She did not seem convinced. A doubtful moue appeared on her lips. "I hope so," she said uneasily. "This is our home. I do not want to have to leave. "

I blinked. "Where did you hear that?" I asked, astonished. "Hammad has not spoken of it-"

Zebah shook her head at me, sharply, and cut her eyes towards the nearest group of women. Then she slipped her fingers around my arm, drew me nearer, and lowered her voice. "Some of the other girls…they have overheard the men discussing it, privately," she explained, very softly. "They have spoken of sending us away to another oasis, if it gets too bad, with just a few of the warriors to protect us."

My fingers wrapped around the linen-muffled hilt of my scimitar. "What will the men do, if they stay here?" I asked, though I thought I knew the answer, and the knowledge colored my voice with bitterness.

Zebah shrugged. "What else?" she asked resignedly. "They will fight."

I felt my lips twist into a scowl. _Yes._ They_ will fight, and _we_ will run, _I thought sourly_._ _As if we were the interlopers in our own home, and have no right to fight for it ourselves. _

The thoughts came automatically. On their heels came a rueful look from Zebah, as if she knew exactly what was on my mind. I blushed, and cleared my throat. "How do you hear these things?" I asked her, clumsily changing the subject.

She lifted her hands helplessly. "The other girls speak to me," she said. "I listen. It is not so hard."

I flushed. "It is hard for me," I mumbled.

Zebah paused. "Nadiya…" she began gently, with an air of picking her words as delicately as if pulling ripe blackberries from a bush. "I love you dearly, my sister, but you will scowl so, and the others…they think you are a little strange."

I found my arms folding them across my chest, defensively. "Do_ you_ think I am strange?"

Zebah laughed and weaved her arm through mine, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze. "I think you are my sister," she said simply.

My hackles settled. I tossed my hair. "Well, I do not think we will have to leave," I stated. The mere idea was unthinkable. This oasis was our home. Its sand was our skin, its rocks and cliffs were our bones, and its water flowed through our veins like blood. Where else could we live, if not here? "It is only one of a thousand ideas," I went on stubbornly. "It will be argued, and then abandoned, like so many others have been."

Anyone else might have taken Zebah's smile to be as bright as ever, but to me, it seemed very wan and unconvincing. "I hope not," she murmured. Then she let go of me and wrapped her arms around herself, as if chilled. "Nadiya-" she began hesitantly.

Something about the look on her face made me take notice. I slowed my steps, letting the other women draw even further away from us. "What is it?" I asked quietly. "Tell me, Zebah."

She looked left and right, warily. Nervously, she wet her lips with her tongue. "What if…what if something happens?" she stammered.

I did not understand. "Something?" I prompted warily. "Like what?"

"If there is a fight, and the zombies come, and I…I panic. What if…you know." Frustrated, Zebah waved her hands, as if trying to sculpt her thoughts out of the air so that she could show them to me. Her voice was low and urgent and shaky. "What if _something_ happens?"

Where my sister was concerned, there was only one _something _of which she would speak in such tones of vague and unreasoning dread. But I could not show my own dread. Zebah would rely on me to be the strong one. She always had. "We must make sure that it does not, that is all," I said firmly. Then I caught her sideways glance at me. Guilt hovered at the corners of her lips, turning them downwards. "What?"

My sister swallowed, and leaned in to speak in my ear. "Do you remember, the last time we were attacked?" she whispered. "Our mother's favorite glass was broken. I said that it must have been knocked over-"

My heart sank. "It was not?"

Zebah's face was pale. "No," she admitted faintly. "I…I was so frightened, Nadiya. I wanted them to go away, and this…thing rose up in me. It felt so strange, like my belly was full of fire, and that scared me, too, so I pushed it away from me. I happened to look at the glass, right then, and the fire…it all went into the glass. And the glass broke." My sister took a deep, unsteady breath. "It was me," she blurted. "I broke the glass. I could not stop it, Nadiya. I tried, so hard, but it just came out-"

I could not bear that look of abject misery on my sister's face. I stopped, and took her hands in mine, and spoke intently, the words bursting out of me as if my _own_ belly was on fire. "If it comes out, we will hide it," I told my sister fervently. " If something breaks, I will shatter it so well that they will never know it was not me who broke it. If it burns, I will torch whatever is left. If it gets up and walks, I will kill it and bury it." I tightened my hands around hers. "I _will not_ let you be cast out, Zebah," I swore.

She returned the squeeze of my hands, though she did not smile. "And what will I do for you, my sister, while you are busy protecting me from myself?" she asked softly.

That was a simple question to answer. "You can listen to me," I told her gruffly, and let her hands drop, looking away. "Gods know that no one else does."

That did get her to smile. "Oh, now you are just being unfair," she accused me whimsically.

"I am not."

"Mother listens."

"She does, and then she ignores me, anyway. Or she tells me that I am wrong. And then she still ignores me."

"Father does, then."

"He does, and then he mocks me. I am not sure which is worse - being ignored, or being unfavorably compared to an angry partridge."

Zebah rolled her eyes. "What about Ali?"

I was silent. Ali _did_ listen, that was true, but my eldest brother was far away, and I did not know when he would be back again. The thought was enough to throw my mood into bleakness all over again. "Come," I said suddenly, shoving the thought away before Zebah could see it on my face. I was done with this conversation. Continuing it would only upset the both of us. "The others will be wondering what has become of us."

"Yes, my sister," Zebah murmured obediently, but there was a lift to her eyebrows which said that I had not ended this conversation – only postponed it.

The bark of the fig trees was grey with mold, and many of them were riddled with dry rot. Those few which remained bore only small fruit, but it was better than nothing, and so we set about taking it.

After a brief search, we found a tree that had not yet been touched by the other women. Zebah sprinkled the roots of a fig tree with camel's blood, to compensate the place spirits for their loss, while I reached up and plucked a fig from the dry branches and cupped it in my hand.

My sister must have seen the look on my face, for she paused in her sprinkling and stared at me, concerned. "What is it?" she asked.

I did not answer. I did not have the words. The fig was a sad and shriveled thing, and when I pulled it open with my fingers, a writhing clump of maggots fell out.

Zebah watched, wide-eyed. "Perhaps we _are_ cursed," she said softly.

The other Bedine called us that. _Cursed._ We had never believed it, ourselves, but it had been hundreds of years since the lich's hand had last reached out from his tomb. It had been hundreds of years since we had last tasted drought like this. Perhaps we had always been cursed – we had merely forgotten the truth of our situation.

I shuddered and dropped the rotten fruit. Then I pushed it into the ground with my foot, crushing the creatures that had been in it. "If we are cursed, we know who is to blame," I muttered darkly.

Zebah's lips tightened. She would not say the name – it would only invite _his _attention – but it was clear that she knew it. We all did. We were born knowing, and his tomb burned in our perceptions like a brand.

_Kel-Garas._

_* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *_

The next morning, I was waiting for Hammad among the acacia trees, standing with my arms crossed over my chest and a frown set on my face.

He strode in as he always did, smiling in that foxish way of his. His eyes took note of my frown, and his smile widened. "Good morning, oh bramble headed one!" he greeted me cheerfully, and drew his scimitar, tapping its tip on the ground in a brisk signal for me to draw. "Or is it the other end which has encountered the brambles, today? You have quite a pained look on your face, Nadiya."

I drew my own sword and dropped into a ready stance. "Where has Ali gone?" I asked, and turned aside Hammad's first exploratory strike at my left side.

Our uncle lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise. "To search for a legend," he replied smoothly. His sword flashed up and under my overhand strike, spinning my sword off to the side. "Why do you ask?"

I spun away with the blow, letting my blade sweep down and come back up in time to block the next hit I knew was coming. "You are being obscure," I complained, and shoved his sword away, taking two quick steps back and out of range.

He followed me, swinging his blade freely to and fro without actually moving to strike, making me guess what his next move might be. "I delight in obscurity," he said blithely, and lunged for my face.

I blocked the slash, leaning backwards precipitously to evade the steel that had come perilously close to my face. I _would _not smile at his quips. I would not. At least...not at that particular one. "You delight in making other people wish to kill you," I growled in exasperation, and, with an unladylike grunt of effort which my mother would have tutted at, shoved his sword away from me.

He laughed, and stepped swiftly away, swinging his sword up and across his body to deflect my lunge. "That, as well," he admitted, and came after me.

A flurry of strikes ended in a stalemate. We separated. I watched his eyes, which would narrow just an instant before his sword would jump into motion. "So where has he gone?" I demanded.

Hammad's inward sweep to my side met my sword in the middle. I twisted my sword and forced his down and to the side. He laughed merrily, and I realized that he had given me the strike so that he would still have the strength to force my own sword right back up and nearly into my face - which he did, shoving me back several desperate steps. "You delight in being tenacious," he remarked.

I frowned, and wrenched my sword back down again. We exchanged blows again, _left-right-left. _The exchange left our swords crossed down to the left, tips in the sand. I gave my uncle a triumphant smile, and unpinned his sword with a flourish. "I delight in knowing where my brother is," I retorted.

He raised his eyebrows. "Finding answers," he replied, and snapped the curved edge of his scimitar at my hip, forcing me to step away and block it.

I spun away, keeping the live edge of my scimitar facing him. "He is asking the phaerimm for help, isn't he?" I insisted. "He said that directions to it were carved in al-Rashid's tomb."

"Were they?" Hammad asked innocently. His blade snaked around to my right side.

I leapt in a half-circle and slapped his sword down. "You know they are. I have seen the tomb."

My blade rippled the folds of his keffiyeh as he ducked beneath my swipe. "As have we all," he remarked blandly, and lashed out while I still had my arm extended.

I tightened my legs and shoulders to keep my stance steady and tapped his sword, first on one side and then the other, as it darted from side to side, looking to slip through my guard. "Inside, there is a map to the place where al-Rashid found the phaerimm," I observed.

"And?" His blade drummed a rapid tattoo up mine and, while my wrist was still quivering with the reverberations, he plucked my sword from my grip with his free hand. "Tsk. You were not paying attention, Nadiya," he chided me, and reversed my blade over his forearm, offering it to me hilt-first. "Concentrate, my little thornbush. You will not often find an enemy as indulgent as I."

I snatched it back, scowling and swinging it 'round to settle my grip. "The phaerimm's gift keeps Kel-Garas and his minions in the tomb," I persisted.

"And?"

"And now they are coming out." I shifted my weight to my left foot and spun on it to pull my right hip out of range of his lunge. "The phaerimm's gift must be weakening," I went on, ducking beneath his swipe and trying for his leading leg, which he hurriedly jerked out of the way. "It is the only explanation. Ali has gone to ask it why."

Hammad's face was bland. "And?" he asked again, and lunged forward suddenly.

"And _what_?" Hurriedly, I blocked the slash at my left shoulder, my arms nearly buckling with the effort. I knew I could not force it down – so I did not, and I took a backwards leap out of range of his sword, landing in a crouch.

Hammad smiled at me in approval. His velvet-brown eyes, so much like mine, gleamed. "And what can you do about it, if Ali has gone where you think he has gone?" he challenged.

I gave him a smile that I thought just as infuriating as his. "Nothing," I said simply. "I just wanted to know."

At that, Hammad lowered his sword and stared at me. Then he threw back his head and laughed. "Very good," he complimented me, and, for a moment, his eyes glowed with something that might have been pride. Then, before I could be sure of what I had seen, his face smoothed to its customary expression of sly amusement, and he turned away, gesturing with his scimitar. "But watch your left side," he added in businesslike tones. "It is still weaker than your right."

I bowed, as would have been expected of a warrior in accepting a compliment from his sheikh. If Hammad disapproved of the gesture, coming as it did from a woman, he said nothing, only gestured for me to raise my sword and carry on with the fight.

I did as my sheikh bid me, and carried on. There was nothing else I could do, and Ali would return when he would return.

In the meantime, I would do was what my tribe had done for countless generations.

I would keep my sword sharp and stand wait against the night.


	7. Chapter 7

7.

Late the next morning, I covered my head with a scarf to protect it from the sun and walked slowly to my rock, to continue my vigil. Walking quickly was not an option. It would waste the water which, between the low rations and my daily sparring sessions with Hammad, I did not have to spare.

The cedar that stood beside my rock was still fragrant, though it was a dry and earthy scent, not green like it should have been. I brushed its fallen needles from my seat, adjusted the hang of my scabbard beneath its concealing mantle, and sat.

The creek that normally ran through the wadi was bone-dry. I could no longer see the surface of the oasis, not even from my vantage point. The water had sunk too far from the lip of the basin.

Below me, I heard the voices of the men. In the red, exhausted silence which surrounded us, their voices carried easily.

They were arguing again. Hammad wanted them to wait, but their patience was slipping, and even our uncle's persuasive tongue could not calm them when every nightfall brought another attack.

Last night, it had been skeletons, clad in what had looked like the remains of Bedine robes and carrying rusty, pitted scimitars. It was as if Kel-Garas was taunting us. _See your fate, _he seemed to be saying. _See what happens to those who oppose me._

I stared dully out over the sand. I was, I decided, very tired. This waiting did not suit me. I would have liked to _do _something, but my head was as absent of ideas as the heads of the tribal council. So I sat, and I looked at the sand until it turned into a blur.

Eventually, I noticed a darker-colored blur against the lighter one. I blinked, trying to bring it into focus.

It looked like a person, robed and slowly limping from the wadi. It moved in the manner of one exhausted beyond all reason, but there was a pantherine grace to its movements which was very familiar to me.

I stared for a few moments longer, unsure whether wishful thinking, combined with the midday heat, had started to make me hallucinate.

Then, when the mirage did not go away, I stood. Putting my fingers between my lips, I whistled, in the way I had heard men whistle when greeting a returning scout. Moments after, I heard my whistle being taken up by the men who were on watch. Back near the oasis, someone shouted.

At the commotion, the figure raised its head. Its face was sun-dark, bearded, and fierce. I knew it as well as I knew my own – better, perhaps, because I tried to avoid mirrors whenever I could. Mirrors were never as friendly to me as they were to the rest of my family, with the possible exception of Hammad, who was nearly as short and stocky and round-faced as I was.

My heart jumped into my throat. "Ali!" I shouted, and scrambled down from my rock. I nearly forgot not to run - though I did not forget to take my hand away from my sword. Not until I was close enough to be absolutely certain that it was him.

Then I drew close, and I saw that it _was _him, and I _did _forget all of the manners and good sense our mother had taught me - such as not running at midday, or not throwing my arms around my brother, laughing like a little girl.

After a moment's surprise, his arms closed around me, and he pressed a kiss to my forehead. His muscles were trembling, and I was not sure whether his embrace was purely affectionate, or if he was using my support to keep his knees from buckling. Perhaps it was a bit of both. "Nadiya!" he exclaimed. He smelled sun-baked and sweaty, his voice was a croak, and his lips were dry and cracked. "What are you doing outside at this hour?"

I peered up at him and reached for the skin at my belt. Rations were rations, but my brother desperately needed water. I would have cried at seeing him in such a state, but I was too thirsty, myself, and did not want to waste the fluids. "Waiting for you," I said shortly, and held the skin to my brother's lips. He did not question the gesture – as the need was his, so was the water. Any Bedine child knew that - just as any Bedine child could tell that Ali had pushed himself far too hard. "What were _you_ doing, travelling so close to midday?" I scolded him. "You should know better, Ali!" He could not respond, as he was busy drinking. I took advantage of his silence, barreling ahead with, "And what happened to your camel? Was it stolen?"

My brother lifted his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No," he said evenly. "I ate it."

I blinked, momentarily nonplussed. "What...all of it?"

Ali gave one of his fluid, complicated shrugs. "All that I could carry," he replied. "The waterways for miles in any direction have dried up. For lack of a better alternative, I decided that drinking camel's blood was better than drinking nothing at all. So I killed it, and walked the rest of the way." He paused. "I think I must have been particularly thirsty," he observed conversationally. "It did not taste as bad as it usually does." Then he blinked, and pinched the bridge of his hawkish nose. "Wait," he mumbled, his voice strained. "_Why_ am I telling you this?"

I shrugged back. "Because I asked?" I suggested.

His expression was pained. "Nadiya, you are my _sister_," he said in exasperation. "You should not have to-"

I bristled. "What?" I interrupted hotly, and put my hands on my hips, glaring up at my goat of a brother. "I should not have to know that Kel-Garas has sucked even the surrounding desert dry? Is that it?"

"Nadiya-"

I ignored him, my voice rising over his parched protests. "Or is it that I should not have to know that I am likely to die of thirst, if the zombies do not kill me first?" I demanded angrily. "Why must I be kept ignorant of my own fate, Ali? Bad enough that I may die – must I go to my death blindly, as well, while you coddle me and tell me sweet lies? Is _that _a woman's place, to trot like a lamb to her slaughter?"

He stared at me, with that expression which suggested that, although he loved me dearly, he was beginning to suspect that I had accidentally inhaled the fumes that came when the men smoked their opium pipes, and he was wondering how to restrain me until the effects wore off. "We do not have time for this," he said at last, and straightened up, though he kept one hand on my shoulder. "Hammad," he said suddenly, and took a step forward. "I must speak with Hamma-" Ali's legs buckled on the second step, depositing him on the sand. "Oops."

I lunged for him, wrapping my arms around his chest to keep him from toppling over entirely. "Ali," I said between gritted teeth, and struggled to keep him upright. The last thing I wanted was for him to faint. "You are a goat," I stated matter-of-factly. "You have the brains of a goat. You have the manners of a goat-"

Ali lifted his head and blinked at me blearily. "I do not," he mumbled indignantly. "I have very good manners." He blinked again, and reached up to pat my forearm with an air of befuddled perplexity. "Spirits. When did your arms become so strong, little sister?" he asked curiously. "_That_ cannot have come from beating carpets."

Even half-delirious from heatstroke, Ali could have thought circles around any of my other brothers. I would have been proud of him, had his observations not been so inconvenient.

Fortunately, we were no longer entirely alone, and I did not have to respond immediately. "Save your breath, brother," I told him, and pointed. There was a wall of billowing black robes headed our way, and it was led by a figure whose frenetic strides soon led him to outdistance all of the others. "Hammad is already here."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The men whisked Ali away in a whirlwind of robes and a rumble of soft, urgent conversation.

They did not let me hear what Ali had to say. Hammad told me to go to my mother, to tell her that her eldest son had returned in one piece. They, in the meantime, would find him some shade. I noticed that they did not head towards the temple, but rather, downhill, towards the council tent. Perhaps they wanted shade that did not contain the sharp ears of their wives and daughters.

I could not argue with Hammad's command – not, at least, in front of the other men. So I chewed my lower lip and did as I was told, fuming.

Our mother took the news calmly, though I saw that some of the tension left her shoulders as soon as I said that Ali would be well. Zebah wanted to know what had happened. I told her what I knew, and that Ali was well. I did not tell her of my suspicions. I did not even know what my suspicions _were, _only that I had them.

_Something is wrong, _I thought, huddled in the dim dark of the temple while we waited for the men to return and tell us whatever they would tell us. _Ali was upset. _I knew how to read my brother's eyes. They were the only feature we had in common, and Ali was not as guarded as our uncle – his every mood reflected in his eyes. He had been stricken, and not only from sunstroke. _Whatever he found, it was not good._

Without thinking, I surged to my feet, my thumbnail clenched between my teeth. I _could not _sit still. I would claw my way out of my own skin, first.

Our mother looked over at me. "What _is _it, Nadiya?" she asked in exasperation. She had been in mid-conversation with one of our aunts, and the both of them were regarding me with that expression of scandalized concern that I had learned to dread. "Spirits, child, can you never sit still?"

I felt a flush start somewhere beneath my neck, heading upwards toward my face with uncomfortable haste. I hated the way they were looking at me, as if I were this strange, outlandish creature that they could not begin to puzzle out. Ali looked at me that way sometimes, but always with concern, whereas our aunt's gaze held what I thought was a bit of scorn - and oh, how it made me _squirm_.

Stung, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I-I forgot my head scarf," I stammered. Then I blinked. As lies went, that was actually quite good. I did not know how I had thought of it, but now that I had, I thought it might actually work. "I…must go retrieve it. Before it turns dark," I added, haltingly. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my spine, and hoped that our mother would believe me, because if I had to keep up the lie much longer, I was sure that my own unease would give me away, and I would melt into a puddle of pink cheeks and nervous sweat.

She gave me a long, measuring look. "Take one of your brothers," she said, after a considering pause. She turned back to our aunt. "And do not take long!" she called. "It will be dark soon."

I sketched a hasty bow and gathered up my things before she could change her mind. _Of course I will not take long_, I thought crossly. _I just said that I needed to go before it turned dark, didn't I?_ There were times when I found our mother's habit of telling me to do the obvious to be very annoying. It made me feel as if she had never stopped regarding me as a helpless child, constantly in need of instruction. I knew how to take care of myself – I even had a sword! The undead seldom came during the day, and even if they did, they came from the tomb and sought out the places where there were more people. If I went quickly and kept my eyes open - and made sure that I was prepared, if all else failed, to run - I would be safe.

I was so indignant that, until I reached the temple door, I did not remember why I had actually wanted to leave.

Then I remembered. _Ali, _I thought suddenly. _I need to know what he is saying. _Something was wrong, and remaining ignorant of it would drive me as mad as Hammad.

Out in the clear, rippling heat of the early afternoon, I held my scimitar still to muffle the clink and crept forward warily, my eyes and ears straining for any sign that I was not alone. I had spent much of my childhood hiding – from our mother, or my brothers, or sometimes, when I was in no mood to speak to anyone, from everyone in our tribe. Then I had spent two years sneaking down to the shelter of the acacia trees to spar with Hammad. This was my home, and I knew each hiding place – each rock and tree, each crevice and dip – as well as I knew my own skin. Hiding was easy.

Finding the men was harder, but not too hard. The council tent was large, and, predictably, they were all gathered within it.

I skirted a sun-blasted sagebrush and crouched next to it, relying on the high sun to keep me from casting a shadow. The men's words came to me clearly, from the other side of the canvas.

"Was there no sign of it at all?" one of them asked.

Ali's voice was stiff, and had begun to fray around the edges with annoyance. "Not unless you count its corpse," he said. "No."

"Yes, but did you find the _cause _of its death?" another man demanded.

Hammad snorted. I could hear the swish of robes, and I thought that he must have been pacing. "What does the cause matter? The thing is dead," he said bleakly.

There was a brief, uneasy silence. "And the gift?" one of the men asked.

The reply came from Hammad. "Fading," he said curtly. "You, Ali? Do you feel it?"

My brother's voice was tired. "Faintly. But it is…hard to reach, now."

"Ah. A pity. I had hoped that you, being the eldest-"

Another voice interrupted. "The gift does not work like that, oh sheikh-"

"Hell's Bells, man - who is of the family of al-Rashid here? You? No? Then would you kindly stop telling me how my own damned gift works?"

"Father-"

"My apologies, Ali. My temper often gets the better of me when I am forced to endure such rampant idiocy."

One of our mother's brothers murmured a rueful reply. "So does your tongue, my sheikh."

"Yes, yes. So I have often been told – and in much unkinder terms than yours. For that small courtesy, brother mine, I thank you."

"You are welcome, brother."

Ali's voice was strained. "Father…I am sorry. I could not-"

Hammad cut him off. "Can you bring the dead back to life?" he asked bluntly. "No? Then do not waste your time lamenting. This is the hand we have been dealt. We must simply see what tricks remain up our sleeves."

"So what does remain?" one of the men asked bitterly. "Without the gift, we have no way-"

"What is this nonsense?" Hammad interrupted irritably. "We have a way. We always have a way. We are Bedine! If nothing else, we can always arm ourselves to the teeth and run screaming into the abyss-"

"While I will agree that it is not disagreeable to fight a hopeless battle, my sheikh," one of the men said diplomatically, "-it is quite another to ask our wives and daughters to endure the same."

They were quiet. "We can send them away," one man suggested.

My blood went cold. I lost track of the next several exchanges, my mind spinning in circles at the mere thought of being sent from my home while my brothers and my uncles stayed here and died.

Then: "Why not go steal that stinking bastard's soul jar out from under him and bang it against Lathander's altar a few times, the way we ought to have done as soon as that damned temple was built?" That was Hammad. I heard the snap of his robes, and knew that he would have just turned in his pacing, crisply, practically wearing a hole in the earth with his strides. "It may not kill him, but it will weaken him. It may even give the bastard some unprecedented apprehensions of his own mortality-"

Some of the men shifted uneasily. I heard the creak of their swordbelts and the clink of weapons. "But…this is magic," one said uneasily. "How do we know-"

"We know because any fool knows that a lich, once deprived of his soul jar, is no more than a particularly ugly mage," Hammad snapped. "Use the wit the gods gave you, man! We may not touch magic, but might we at least make some token attempt to understand it, given that we happen to be sitting right on top of a bloody _lich_?"

"Father-"

"Yes, Ali. I hear you. You may stop attempting to calm me down, now. It will not work, anyway, so you might as well save your breath." Hammad's robes swished again as he reached the end of his pacing and turned. "I will go," he announced abruptly. "The gift will not last much longer. If I am to sneak into the lich's tomb and poach his most prized possession, I would rather have as much of al-Rashid's power at my disposal as possible."

I heard Ali's sharp intake of breath. "_You_ plan to-"

"Please, do not say it, else I may hide under a rock and not emerge until all of this is over." Hammad's voice was pained. "_Yes._ I plan to go into the tomb. Alone. And, _no_, you will not come with me. Do not give me that look. If this is to be done, it must be done by one man – preferably one who is capable of some stealth. You are too attached to your honor, my son, and probably more suited to the sheikhdom than I am, anyway. I, on the other hand, have the soul of a camel thief."

For the first time in my life, I heard my brother at a loss for words. "I…I…"

Hammad's voice was wry. I could almost picture his crooked smile. "Yes," he agreed blandly. "The sheikhdom _is_ a hellish responsibility to face, isn't it? Unfortunately, that is what you get for being born a male in al-Rashid's line." He lowered his voice, and I thought that Ali and I must have been the only ones to hear his next words. "Trust me, I tried to run away from it myself, when I was even younger than you are now. The only thing that happened is that all of my elder brothers died in a variety of foolish ways while I was busy dodging destiny. One of my brothers even died in mid-coitus with another man's wife, proving not only that fate will not be cheated but that it also has a truly outstanding sense of humor."

"Was that-"

"Your uncle Azir? Oh, yes. Try not to go the way he did, my son. You will embarrass your mother terribly. Actually, no, I take that back – do try. I think his death was a far pleasanter one than that which either of us are likely to experience, and even your mother's deepest disapproval cannot reach into the grave." I thought I heard Hammad's voice waver for a moment, though I cannot have been certain, and it steadied a moment later, anyway. He raised his voice. "I will not make a speech. It will be wasted on you louts, anyway. Rather, I will put my voice to a more effective use. Is there anyone among you who will volunteer to escort our ladies to safety?"

There was a pause, and a murmur of voices. "I will go," one man said. It was Fayid's voice.

Another spoke. "I will, as well," a voice volunteered. I thought it was a cousin of mine, or perhaps another uncle. "I have sisters. I will not leave them to the mercy of the lich."

"A commendable instinct," my uncle murmured. "You, then, and you, and you, and you as well – if I am not back two sunrises from now, assume that I have failed, and take the women to the oasis near El Ma'ra. Do you know where that is? Yes? Good. Guard them from the other tribes – put up our markers. The rumors of our curse should be enough to dissuade those miscreants. If not, dissuade them with your blades – as emphatically as you must. Form a tight perimeter. Those are our wives and daughters and sisters, gentlemen – they will be trusting you to gut any dog who might dare to lay a finger on them. Do not betray that trust."

There was a murmur of agreement from a score of male voices, all on the theme of, "Yes, my sheikh."

"Excellent." Hammad's robes swept past, buffeting the camel hides that made the tent's walls. "Ali, come with me. I now have a far more difficult task ahead of me-"

"What is that?"

Our uncle's tone was dry, though I thought I heard a crack form in it, a jagged splinter of pain. "I must speak with your mother."


	8. Chapter 8

8.

I crouched by the tent, frozen in place like a statue.

_They are sending us away, _I thought, and I wondered how it could be that my blood could run so cold even as my heart pounded in my chest. _They are sending us away, and Hammad-_

I could not finish the thought. Shock turned my lips and fingertips numb, and pinned my limbs in place.

I could not believe what I had just heard – but I was young, and my hearing was good. I could not have misheard.

A footstep scraped nearby. "Nadiya," our uncle's voice said mildly. "Is there any particular reason _why _you were just spying on a private conversation? I am only asking for my own personal enlightenment, you understand."

I gasped, and shot to my feet. "H-Hammad!" I yelped. "How…why…"

"Why have I so ungraciously interrupted your eavesdropping?" My uncle quirked an eyebrow at me. His smile was mocking, though there was an annoyed edge to it that did not bode well for me. "I do not know, Nadiya. Why don't you try telling me?"

I would have lied, but it seemed that I had been lucky to have thought of one lie already today, and the sweat beading on my forehead precluded the possibility that I might think of a new one. "I…I wanted to know what was happening," I said shakily, and took a deep breath. My voice was high and nervous. I hated it, but could not bring it down to calm again. "No one would tell me."

Hammad leaned close to me. His breath stirred my hair. "And you will tell no one else, hmm?" he suggested meaningfully.

I took his hint - though it was not so much a hint as an order. "Yes, my sheikh," I mumbled, staring intently at my toes.

I heard his sigh. "Thank you, Nadiya," he said quietly. I felt his forefinger hook beneath my chin, lifting my face. His eyes, a soft and velvet brown - so like mine, so like Ali's - were unusually solemn, and they glittered in the harsh sunlight. "I will ask another thing of you, my daughter," he said evenly.

He seldom called me _daughter _– at least, not to my face. I had no idea what it meant, that he would call me that now. "W-what?"

His lips tightened. "Be careful," he said roughly. "You are a very prickly little thornbush, but even the prickliest of brambles may be uprooted. Do not guard your mother and sister so well that you forget to guard yourself." His thumb stroked the line of my chin, absently. "And watch that left flank of yours," he added gruffly. "You still leave it too open."

I gulped. "Y-yes…" I thought of calling him _father_, but my nervous tongue would not form the words, and I was afraid of what I might see in his eyes if I said it. I was afraid that what I saw might make me cry, and, in this heat, I could not afford the tears. "Yes, my sheikh," I whispered.

His hand cupped my cheek, gently. "Good girl," he said quietly, and kissed my forehead. Then, before I could respond, he left.

I watched him go, and I sank down onto the sand. It was sun-warmed, but, for some reason, I felt very, very cold.

Before our great ancestor, al-Rashid, had won the phaerimm's gift, it was said that thousands of Bedine – members of our tribe as well as others – had been killed by the lich's magic. He had been a mage of Netheril, and a favored soul of Jergal. Without the gift, there was no way to stand against him. All of the stories said so.

Hammad was going to face the lich. It was too much to hope that he would not die. No-one had ever been able to do it – not even al-Rashid. Not without the gift, and with the gift-giver dead, and no time to find another way to strip the lich of his magic. The only hope was that enough of the gift lingered still, but Ali…Ali had said…

A terrible realization struck me. _My mother, _I thought. Hammad – her husband - had gone to speak with her. He would tell her what he intended to do._ Oh, gods. My mother._

Before I knew what I was doing, I had scrambled to my feet and begun running for the temple. I had to warn her, had to soften it, had to tell her before he told her, because she loved the man, with his sly humor and odd temper and the way he smiled at her, sometimes, as if she was his entire reason for smiles. As faithful and dutiful a wife as our mother had been to her first husband, I could not remember if she had ever looked at my own father in the way that I sometimes caught her looking at Hammad, and I thought that a part of me wanted to hate him for so thoroughly usurping my father's place.

But…he was not so bad, even if his sense of humor was atrocious. He had always been kind to me, in his strange and startling way.

And our mother loved him. What he had in mind would break her heart. I had no idea how to prevent it, only that I _had_ to.

As it turned out, I was too late. He was already there. They were hidden behind the curtain that concealed our sleeping blankets from the public spaces of our refuge, speaking quietly.

I sank back against a column, breathless. I should not have run. The afternoon heat had taken the breath right out of me. It had to be that. I was not upset. I would not cry. If Hammad wished to pursue this insane idea of his, it was his right, as sheikh, to do so – and there was nothing that I, as his unmarried daughter, could do to stop him.

I heard our mother's voice, low and fervent. "Hammad…you absolute, blithering _idiot_," she hissed.

A spark of humor lit our uncle's voice. "To tell you truly, my love…I had hoped for a more tender response than that." He chuckled softly. "_Idiot, _indeed."

I felt dirty, like an interloper, like a Zhentarim spy, upon hearing the way our mother's voice broke. "The gods did not grant us this second chance, only for me to lose you to this folly now," she said desperately. "Hammad-"

His voice was soft. "You cannot lose me, Asra." He paused, and I thought I heard the soft rustle of cloth, and the brush of lips against skin. "You have always had me. You always will."

Our mother's voice was grim and tight. Unshed tears made it thick. "Not if Kel-Garas takes your soul."

"Then we had best hope that he does not, hadn't we?"

"Hammad…" The note of agonized pleading in our mother's voice made it sound shockingly unfamiliar to me. I had never heard her speak like that.

My uncle's voice was barely more than a murmur, muffled by our mother's hair. "Hush."

My vision blurred. I could not hear any more of this. I could not. It was wrong of me to have listened in the first place. Why was it that I could never listen when I should, and only listen when I shouldn't?

Blinded, I stumbled away and into the deepest shadows of the temple, alone, where no one would know of the guilty tightness in my chest, or see the tears on my cheeks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Plans were made. Routes were discussed. Stores of water and food were tallied and divided. Dried fruit was shaken into woven sandgrass pouches. The last of the goats were slaughtered, and their meat was cut into strips and smoked until it was like leather. Tents and pots and other supplies were organized and packed into wicker hampers, which would be carried by the healthiest of our remaining camels.

I hated it. Hammad had told us to wait for him for two sunrises, and there were still two sunrises left on our watch. I was sure that he was still alive, and anger seethed in my stomach, to see everyone already preparing to leave. It was as if they had already given up on him.

Eventually, night came, and the temple quieted. We could not spare any fuel, so Zebah huddled together beneath our blankets and tried to sleep.

My eyes remained stubbornly open. They fell on our mother, who strode up and down the hall, double- and triple-checking what preparations had been made.

I gnawed on my lower lip, watching her. "She will not sleep," I muttered darkly. "I wish she would."

Next to me, Zebah shifted. "What else can she do?" she replied, almost inaudibly.

Zebah had hardly spoken all day – not since the men had announced their plans. Not since Hammad had left. I would have been happy to hear her speak now, except that she was curled into a tight, miserable ball, and I could feel a shiver pass through her every so often, so I did not think she was speaking now because she felt any happier than she had felt before.

I would have liked to say something to console her, but I could not seem to think of anything to say that would not make it worse. So, instead, I said, "She can try. At least she can sit and rest, rather than tiring herself out like that."

My sister gave a slight shake of her head. "No, Nadiya," she whispered. "She cannot."

"Why not?"

"Because it will drive her mad, if she must sit and do nothing while Father-" Zebah's voice broke. She fell silent for several moments. "Do…do you think he will come back?" she asked in hushed tones.

Her shoulders felt so frail and thin when I wrapped my arm around them. "Of course he will," I said. It was not a lie. He _had _to come back. He had to. I had not called him Father when I had the chance, and I did not want him to die thinking that I hated him.

Zebah leaned her head against my shoulder. Her hair fell across her face, obscuring her expression. "I had hoped that it would not take so long," she murmured.

"It has not been long," I said, and that was true. He had only been gone the afternoon and night. _Two sunrises, _he had said. _Wait two sunrises. Do not think about it. He will be fine. _"Besides," I added, my tone dry. "Maybe he decided to distract the lich by telling it a few of his jokes."

Zebah giggled softly against my shoulder. "Oh, gods, no," she whispered in mock horror. "What if…what if he tells the lich that one about the djinn and the horseman?"

I was almost certain that Zebah and I were not supposed to have overheard that _particular _joke. It had taken us a long while even to understand what it had been about, and, once we had, we had blushed for the rest of the day. "If he does that, the lich will want to kill him for certain," I said without thinking. Then I paused, flushing. "Sorry," I mumbled.

To my surprise, Zebah did not immediately burst into tears. Rather, she giggled again, albeit in a watery kind of way. "Nadiya! I think you may have inherited some of Father's terrible sense of humor after all," she teased me.

I wriggled my shoulders in a self-conscious shrug. "I am sorry."

"Do not be. It does my heart good to hear you say such things. You are always so serious, my sister." Zebah sniffled, and brushed her hair away from her face. A few strands stuck to her damp cheeks. Her laughter faded. "Spirits keep him safe," she prayed softly.

As irreverent and blasphemous as Hammad was, I did not think that it was wise to ask the spirits to watch over him, just in case he had recently done something to offend them. Still, if it gave my sister comfort to ask their blessings, I would not contradict her.

We were quiet for a while. Zebah's sniffles eventually stopped. A pensive silence took their place.

Eventually, she broke the silence again. "I hate this," she said quietly.

In front of Ali or our mother, I might have pretended indifference or bravery. In front of Zebah, I just heaved a long, troubled breath, and said, "So do I."

My sister wrapped her arm around mine. "I have been listening to the others. They say that Kel-Garas will follow us, if the men cannot stop him," she went on, her voice pitched to reach my ears and stop there. After so many years of exchanging quiet confidences, we were very good at remaining unheard. "They say that he will not allow a drop of al-Rashid's blood to escape him, after…after what our ancestor has done."

After so many years, almost every member of our tribe bore at least a drop of al-Rashid's blood. How far would the lich be able to reach, if he controlled the oasis? How far would he_ try_ to reach, if he knew that any of al-Rashid's line still lived? "You listen to too much gossip, Zebah," I said numbly.

My sister drew in a sharp breath. "And if you had the patience to listen to it, you would understand that the truth can be found on even the most foolish of tongues," she said, her voice unusually harsh. "You never listen, Nadiya. You have already decided that their words are worthless, and you will not hear otherwise!"

I stared at her. "Zebah-"

My sister paused. Then, wearily, she sighed, and again she brushed her hair away from her eyes with her long fingers. "I am sorry, Nadiya," she said brokenly. "I am sorry. You did not deserve that. I am just-" Her voice trailed off, and she sat up again, wrapping her arms around herself. I felt her shiver. "I have been thinking-"

I pulled the blankets tighter around both of us. "About what?"

"Perhaps-" My sister bit her lip. "Perhaps I should stay," she said in a rush. Then she clapped a hand over my mouth, stifling my instinctive outcry. "_No_. Listen to me, Nadiya," she begged urgently. "Please, listen. You have often said…what if magic really is the only thing which can fight magic? What if I-"

I pulled my sister's hand away from my mouth. "What if you did what?" I hissed. "Zebah…you cannot be seen…you cannot risk it-"

Her tears were coming back. I heard them in her voice. "Risk what?" she retorted. "Being discovered? At the cost of our brothers' lives? At the cost of-" All at once, her breath let go in a wavering sigh.

_At the cost of Hammad's life, _I completed her sentence silently, and felt a shrivel of dread in my gut. I hated it, but because I could marshal no real argument against her, I said nothing.

If I could, I would stay, too. I hated, _hated _the thought of going away while my brothers – while Ali – stayed here, knowing that I may never see them again in this life. It felt like abandoning my own people. It felt like running away.

But there was Zebah to think about, and our mother. Hammad had trained me to protect them, above all. My sword and I were bound to go wherever they went. It would take any even greater duty to undo that one, and I did not see how there could be any greater duty for me. I was not a warrior. I would never be called to fight.

When my sister spoke again, it was in tones of revulsion. "I feel_ his_ magic, Nadiya," she whispered. "It coats my skin like oil, and it leaves a horrible taste in my mouth…but somehow, I can sense it. Gods help me. It is like always walking through the smoke of a funeral pyre." I felt her shudder. "Can anyone else feel it?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "Can you?" Her fingers tightened around my arm. "Nadiya, if it meant our lives…if it meant _my_ life….would_ you_ hide your sword? Would you hold back?" she pressed, almost delirious in her upset.

As usual, the truth came out of me before I had the chance to stop it and think of a convincing lie. "N-no," I stammered. "Of course not." Then my wits caught up with my tongue. "But_ I_ will not be killed for using it," I added sternly.

Zebah let go of my arm, and touched her fingers to it in a mute apology. "No," she agreed with me, her voice tired. "But you will be forever disgraced, which may be just as bad."

My mouth had gone dry, and my heart had broken into a gallop. "All you have done is call birds and break glass, Zebah," I whispered sharply. "This is madness. There is nothing you can do-"

Her protest was feeble. "Yes, but-"

"No buts. Even if…even if the others would allow it. Which they never will. He has had thousands of years to learn. You are only twelve."

Her lips thinned into an unusually stubborn line. "I can learn quickly," she insisted.

"_No_." I realized that I had begun to raise my voice, and forced it down into a hushed whisper again. "Not quickly enough. You have no time to learn, and if you attack him and fail-" Frantic, I twisted around until I was facing her, and I could see her eyes, wide and white in the shadows. "Zebah, promise me you will not stay," I urged.

Swallowing, she lowered her eyes. Her lips trembled. "I will not," she said dully. "You are right. To be honest, I do not even know what I might do against him, but…I just…I feel so _useless, _Nadiya."

I felt my shoulders slump with relief, and I smoothed her hair. "I know," I said. I felt the same way.

_It is what it is, _I reminded myself grimly. _And it will be what it will be. We cannot change it._

We spoke no more for the rest of the night. I tried to sleep, but failed, and I went through the next day's chores in a numb haze.

I tried not to think of Hammad. He would be back. He had to come back. He was not _allowed _to die. We needed him.

Our mother did not speak to us, unless it was to give us direction on some task or another. Her own face was taut, and the shadows under her eyes were as dark as bruises. She had not slept, either.

The day went past slowly, but eventually, it did end.

The bloody red blaze of the sunset that night sparked excited whispers of ill omens among the other women. I would have liked to unsheathe my sword from beneath my mantle and bludgeon those ninnies with the flat of my blade until they bleated an apology for giving voice to such nonsense, but I was almost certain that Hammad would have considered this a misuse of his training, so I restrained myself and went somewhere quiet until I no longer felt the urge to hit someone. Not as strongly, anyway. I only wanted to kick them a little.

The temple was quiet that night, the air subdued. Chores were done, everyone was tired, and even the worst gossips had run out of speculations.

Outside, someone whistled.

Our mother looked up. "Again," she said in disgust, her lip curling. "The lich grows bolder every night."

I did not want to think of what that might mean. I wondered where Hammad was, and what he was doing while Kel-Garas sent his minions out to harass us. I hoped he had hidden himself well. Maybe he would take advantage of the distraction, and escape with the soul jar in the commotion. Hope rose in me, as light and hot as smoke.

The ring of swords echoed over the oasis. The night air was clear, so the sound carried far.

None of the other women looked up from their work. By now, the nightly attacks were commonplace. The men would take care of it – that, or they would not. Either way, there was little we could do about it.

_Little _they_ can do about it, _I corrected silently. Quietly, I shifted my hips until my scimitar was between my body and the temple wall. Then I checked my scimitar to be sure the hilt was free, and my scabbard was not tangled in my robes. _At least _I _can fight. As long as no one actually _sees_ me fighting, anyway._

Zebah wrinkled her nose. "What _is_ that smell?" she asked absently, her eyes on her weaving.

I glanced over at her, confused. Warily, I sniffed the air. All I could smell was stone, sweat, and perfume, with a slight tinge of camel fat from the few lamps that had been lit. "What smell?" I asked curiously.

Whatever anyone might have said, it was promptly forgotten when a hollow booming echoed through the temple. Wood splintered under the force of the blow.

Our mother's sister Erzha leapt to her feet. "The side door!" she barked. "Barricade it!"

Women rushed to obey, picking up whatever furniture came to hand. "I cannot believe they are attempting the temple," another one of my aunts muttered – our father's sister, this time. "The nerve of that lich-"

I heard another boom, and then, uncomfortably near to my head, a rumble, followed by a sharp crack and the patter of falling stone.

Zebah's eyes went as wide as saucers. "Nadiya!" she shrieked, and pointed at the wall behind me.

I turned to look. There was a new hole in the wall where there had once been a sandstone block, and there was a hand sticking out of the wall. The skin was grayish-green, and coming off in patches.

I frowned at it. Then I pointed. "How did that thing get through two feet of solid stone?" I demanded incredulously.

"Oh, who cares how?" our mother snapped, and lunged past me. She drove her belt dagger into the thing's wrist. It jerked away, taking her knife with it. "Blast," she growled in annoyance. "I _liked_ that knife."

Now a second hand was reaching through the hole, or trying to. It looked like the mate to the first, and its skin peeled off on the jagged stone as the hand thrust through the hole, leaving a dark reddish streak behind it. Maggots curled frantically against the stone and fell, squirming, to the floor.

I looked around. The other women were mostly occupied with the door. This, I decided, would seem a good time to draw my scimitar. So I did.

Our mother saw me, and moved to block me from the sight of the other women. "Do it," she said grimly.

I nodded, and swung my scimitar with both hands. It sheared through the forearm of the first hand, and halfway through the palm of the second. The severed hand thumped to the floor, its fingers still opening and closing on the empty air. A rain of fingers fell after it, along with another shower of maggots.

Zebah hurried over. "Did you kill it?" she asked shrilly.

I peered through the hole, taking care not to get too close. Whatever had blocked it seemed to be gone, but… "I do not think so," I said dubiously. "It usually takes more than that when the men do it-"

Erhza stepped away from the door, brushing her hands. Most of our furniture was stacked in front of it, I noticed. It would be no more than expensive firewood if the zombies broke through. On the bright side, though, if we lived through the attack, we would have a renewed supply of fuel to burn. "Well, the banging appears to have stopped," she said crisply. "It seems that they may have moved on to easier targets."

Our mother's head swiveled. "Are there any others out there?" she asked.

One of the younger girls pulled herself onto the sill beneath one of the temple's high windows, the ones facing the rest of the oasis. She stood on her tiptoes and peered out. Then she did the same in two other windows. "I see none," she reported at last. "But there is fighting down by the water."

Our mother nodded. She pursed her lips. "Carry torches, and open the inner door," she commanded, and pointed at the smaller rectangle within the temple's main doors, which were huge and bound with iron and thoroughly barred. "I want fire on every threshold. You, Erhza, and you, Samar, and you, and you, and you," she instructed, pointing to several of the oldest and most steel-nerved of the women among us. She clapped her hands sharply. "Go to it. Carefully, now. If you see anything moving, drop your torches and retreat."

Belatedly, I realized that I was still holding my scimitar. Hurriedly, I sheathed it. Then, glancing at our mother, I picked up a torch of my own and edged toward the door.

Before I could move very far, I saw Zebah looking at me. Then she looked at our mother. Her lips tightened grimly. Then, without further ado, she gathered her robes and hurried for the door.

I stared. Then I started after her. "Zebah!" I called indignantly. "Are you out of your mind?"

Our mother's jaw dropped. "Zebah! Nadiya!" she ordered angrily. "Get back here, the both of you!"

Zebah paused at the threshold. "If_ you_ are going to charge into battle," she told me fervently, "_I _am not going to simply stand here and watch." She tossed her hair. Her eyes were still wide and fearful, but her jaw was clenched. "I am so _tired_ of letting you take all of the risks on my behalf! Perhaps I should take my _own _risks for once!"

Proud as I was of her, this was_ not_ a good time for my sister to find her backbone. "Zebah-"

She raised her hand for silence, and leaned against the door's frame, peering out cautiously as one of the older women squeezed past her, torch in hand. "Hush," she said imperiously. "I am trying to listen."

I followed her. "Listen to _what_?" I demanded.

My sister's nose wrinkled. "There is that smell again-" she murmured, and stepped the rest of the way through the door, with me dogging her heels. "It seems to be coming from-" Zebah rounded the corner. "Here!" she finished triumphantly. Then she stopped dead.

A crooked shape loomed up in front of her. My sister and I both stared at it. Its skin was grey, and it had an arrow through one of its eyes, which had burst and leaked like jelly down its gaunt cheek.

My sister goggled at the thing. "Oh!" she exclaimed, in the same tones of mild, abstracted surprise that she might use on encountering a stray goat in the brush.

I unfroze a little more quickly. "Zebah!" I shouted, and drew my scimitar, jumping forward to put myself between her and the soulless one.

As fast as I was, though, my sister was faster.

Her face changed, her forehead wrinkling in bemused concentration, as if an interesting new idea had just occurred to her. She held her hands in front of her and cupped them, as if holding a firefly caged between her palms. As I watched, a spark caught in the space between my sister's hands.

Then the spark opened like a flower, and Zebah flung her hand outwards.

The fire leapt from her outstretched hand, shooting through the air so quickly that sparks trailed behind it, like the tail of a falling star. When the fire hit the zombie's chest, it left a smoking hole behind it. I heard a muffled _fwoosh, _and then flames began licking out of the hole.

The zombie stared mindlessly at my sister, flames flickering behind its ruined eye.

Then, mutely, it seemed to crumple inwards, the way a rotten log might if you poked it hard enough. Tongues of fire coiled through it, sending up plumes of greasy, acrid smoke.

Within a few moments, the soulless one was a glowing heap of cloth and charred flesh – and my sister and I stood in shock, watching it burn.

Zebah in particular seemed stunned beyond all comprehension. Her newfound nerve seemed to have failed her. She kept staring from her hands to the zombie's remains in open-mouthed horror.

I goggled at her. Then, abruptly, the direness of the situation hit me, and I shoved my torch into her hands. "Here!" I commanded. "Hold this. If anyone asks, you burned it with the torch."

She blinked, slowly, and swallowed. Her eyes went to the torch, and she blinked once more, this time in dawning comprehension. "Right," she said faintly, and tightened her grip on the torch's handle, her knuckles going white.

I heard running footsteps, and turned, expecting to see our mother and readying my defense of Zebah.

Instead, I saw my eldest brother, a naked sword in his hand and his robes fluttering behind him like a banner.

When he saw us, he stopped. He looked at Zebah and I, and he looked at the corpse of the zombie, all without quite seeming to see any of it. He seemed somewhat at a loss for words.

I had expected to see our mother. I had not expected to see Ali. I assumed he had been down at the oasis, taking part in the fight. "Ali!" I exclaimed. Then I looked at his face. There was a streak of blood on his cheek, though whose blood it was, I did not know. His face was streaked with what might have been tears, cutting a pinkish path through the darker crimson. "Ali! What-"

He seemed to snap back to himself, looking at me as if seeing me for the first time. Ignoring the blade in my hand, he seized me by the shoulders, a feverish urgency lighting his eyes. "Nadiya," he gasped. "Where is our mother?"

I stared at him. "She…she was in the temple-" Fear rose in me, made worse by the fact that I did not understand where it had come from, or why I should be so afraid. "Ali, why-"

The sound of voices cut my own voice short. A cry had gone up from what sounded like every male throat in our tribe, rising over the oasis and the canyon behind like a howl. Swords banged on shields, against sand, on wood.

_The men are singing. _It was a song I knew. _They are mourning the dead. _But that song was not just for any of our dead – only the most honored. Only one person among us was owed that kind of grief-

_Hammad. _I felt the blood drain from my face. Shakily, not even aware of what I was doing, I squirmed from Ali's grip, turning to see what was happening-

My brother yanked me around to face him. "Do not," he said from between clenched teeth. New tears cut a path down his face. He blinked them away. "Do not look. Do not go out there."

I heard a soft step. Beyond Ali's elbow, I saw our mother's face, pale in the light of the moon. She drew to a stop, just behind him. "Ali?" she asked slowly. Trepidation shook her voice. "What has happened?"

He turned. His shoulders sagged, and his voice turned hoarse. "Mother-"

"Ali?" A frightened waver threaded through our mother's voice. Then she seemed to recollect herself, and she raised her chin, taking a steadying breath. "Tell me," she commanded, more firmly, and held her hands out to him.

My brother paused. Then he sheathed his blood-slicked sword and took two quick steps forward, pulling our unresisting mother into his arms. "I am sorry, Mother," he said roughly. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair. "I had to," he whispered. "I am sorry." He drew in another unsteady breath, and let it out again, his shoulders slumping as if a great weight had just landed on them. "I am so, so sorry," he repeated softly. "The lich has taken him. Your husband is dead."


	9. Chapter 9

9.

There was a stack of books on the low table in Ali's tent. Both were rare, though the books were rarer. I had never been taught to read, but Ali had. I had seen him beneath the shade trees, sometimes, after the merchant caravans had come. He would make himself comfortable and draw a little bubble of silence around himself, turning the crackling pages of his latest acquisition. His face had been rapt with fascination each time, and I had found myself marveling at how well the book had fit his long and graceful hands - nearly as well as his sword did.

I wished I could see him like that now. There was no peace left in his eyes, just a haunted, hunted horror.

He sat cross-legged on a cushion. Hammad's chair – the sheikh's chair – loomed behind him. He did not sit in it. "I had to," he said. He had said it several times before, and seemed fully prepared to keep saying it, for as long as I would listen. "I had to kill him."

I repeated what I had said, several times before. "It was not him, Ali," I said quietly.

My brother shook his head numbly. "It wore his face," he disagreed, just as quietly.

I had not been able to see Hammad, before they had taken him to the pyre. I had been at the temple with our mother, who now sat in the same robes she had worn the night before, her hair smelling of smoke and her eyes as blank and empty as glass.

Zebah was with her, as was Ali's wife, whom he had sent to comfort them in my stead. I should have been with them. I did not know why Ali had asked me here – just that the despair in my brother's voice would not let me leave his side unless called, the same as it had been with our mother and sister.

_No one has asked how I feel, _a tiny voice within me thought. _No one is watching over me. _

But that was only natural. Of course they had not asked after me. They would not. Of the sheikh's daughters, it was known that I was the strong one. Of the sheikh's daughters, it was known that I resented the man who had taken the place of my sire. What need did I have for comfort?

_They do not know that he trained me, _I thought. _They do not know that he loved me, too. _

I wondered when it was that I had stopped hating my uncle. I wondered what was wrong with me, that I should realize this only _after_ Kel-Garas had killed him.

_You do not listen, Nadiya, _I berated myself, in the bitter silence of my own mind. _Not even to yourself. You never listen._

I wished that I had looked at Hammad one last time. I was also glad that I had not. I had heard of what it was like, to see someone you had loved in life, returned to you as a twisted mockery of what they had once been. And, even had I not heard the stories, the look of lurking horror in Ali's eyes would have told me all I needed to know about what had become of our uncle.

I heard my brother's voice. It sounded as if he had been speaking for some time. "Nadiya," he said softly. "Look at me."

I looked up, blinking. Only then did I realize that I had been crying.

My brother rose to his knees and leaned forward, brushing my cheeks with his fingers. They came away wet. "You are my sister," he murmured, and his eyes shadowed with renewed guilt. "Why am I burdening you with this?"

I tried to smile at him, but I was not very good smiling, especially when I did not feel at all like it. "Who else will you burden?" I asked. He was sheikh, now. He could not confide in the other men, because he could not show such a weakness at a time like this. He could not confide in our mother, because our mother was lost to her grief. He could, perhaps, confide in his wife, but... _She is sweet and fragile, like Zebah, _I finished the thought. _I am not sweet. I am bad-tempered, and strong, and as stubborn as a camel, and I am so tight-lipped and unsociable that I will never tell anyone else what is said here._

Ali shrugged. "I might have spoken to Hammad." He blew out a breath. "But-" He left the sentence dangling awkwardly. Then, wearily, he ran his hand through his hair, putting it in even further disarray. "He was right," my brother said in a hollow voice. "It _is _a hellish prospect, to face the sheikhdom." He grimaced. "And at a time like this…"

I sighed, and rose. I did not even bother rising to my feet, simply gathered my robes and shuffled to his side on my knees, where I sank back down and wrapped both of my arms around his. I propped my chin on his shoulder, and spoke in his ear. This was my brother. Dignity was not necessary. Comforting him was. "You will do well, Ali," I said.

He snorted. "I am not Hammad."

"No," I agreed gravely. "You are taller."

A splutter of a laugh escaped him. "Nadiya!" he exclaimed, a little lightness returning to his voice. "Was that a joke?"

I blinked. "I…am not certain," I said dubiously. "Was it?"

"Well…I hope it was. You are too serious."

Zebah had often said the same thing. _So had Hammad, _I thought, and turned my cheek to my brother's shoulder, wishing that the tears would stop coming.

Eventually, he sighed. I saw his head turn, his eyes falling on the tent flap. Voices and activity flowed outside, though it was less than usual – _we _were fewer than usual, and many of the women had remained at the temple. "All of those lives," Ali said softly. "They are my responsibility, now."

I did not raise my head. "You will not fail us, Ali," I told him. I had said _that _many times before, as well.

He laughed shortly. His laugh was dark and bitter. "I cannot afford to." He paused. "How…how is our mother?"

My heart shriveled. I did not know what to say. If I told him the truth, he would feel even more guilty, because it had been his hand which had slain the thing which had once been Hammad. If, on the other hand, I lied…well, I was a very poor liar, and Ali would know. He was my brother, and not nearly as much of a goat as my other brothers. He always knew. "She speaks little," I said at last, quietly. "I think…she is still in shock."

Ali's fingers laced together, tightening until his knuckles were white. "Will she forgive me, you think?"

I winced. "Ali-"

"I apologize. I should not ask-"

"Nevermind asking. You should not even think such things. It was not your fault, Ali. She knows that." How easy it was for me to offer such words of consolation, when it had not been my hand which had held the sword.

My brother blew out a breath. "I should have dissuaded him," he lamented.

"That would not have been possible." I closed my eyes, wearily. My brother smelled of sweat and blood and oiled steel, but he also smelled of home, and kin, and of familiar things, and I took comfort in it. "He had already decided. You know-" Something stabbed into my heart, then, as sharp and tearing as a vulture's beak. "You knew him. Once he made up his mind-" I let the words trail off.

"Yes." There was a pause. "I have also reached a decision," Ali added.

I raised my head. My forehead furrowed. "What?"

He turned his head to look at me, his face stern and serious. It was, suddenly, the face of a sheikh, and I did not like it one bit. "You are going," he announced. "As soon as the women can prepare, you will leave. I will send warriors to protect you, and scouts to bring you to a safe oasis-"

I blinked, and sat up. My blood went cold. _Leaving. How? _"And you-" I managed.

He rolled his shoulders in one of his fluid shrugs. "We will kill the lich," he said simply.

_Hammad said the same thing. _"You are mad," I said flatly.

A faint smile appeared on his face. "No," he said. "We are only desperate."

We argued a little more, but I went away soon after, frustrated. The conversation was over, Ali no longer needed my comfort, and I supposed that I knew better than to try to talk a sheikh out of his decision – even if the sheikh was my brother, and a goat, and a fool, and would have done well to heed me.

But I did not say those things to him. Our mother had taught me to be mannerly, after all.

She was still in the place where I had left her, though she was curled up in her blankets, sleeping the sleep of the bone-weary. Her face was haggard. For the first time, I noticed a strand of silver threading its way through her night-dark hair. Had that been there before, and I had just not seen it, or had it appeared overnight?

I sat down next to her and brushed her hair back from her face. _She never grieved this way for my father, _I thought, and nearly began to cry again.

I heard a rustle, and the cluck of a tongue against teeth. "Now, now, sullen girl," our mother's mother said, in a voice like gnarled old roots. "What are these tears for? They cannot be for that scoundrel, can they?"

I looked up at her. She was crouched on the ground near my mother's blankets. She had another blanket slung over her shoulders, and, with her beak of a nose and her beady eyes, she put me in mind of a vulture.

I scowled, and wiped my cheeks. "He was no scoundrel," I snapped.

She laughed. "Oh, he was," she disagreed, and spat over her shoulder. "And a bandit, and a camel thief, and a wicked, charming man." The old woman snorted. "We told her she could not marry him," she added morosely. "But he charmed her so well that she nearly defied us."

I had never heard this. Against my better judgement, I glanced at her sideways and frowned, intrigued. "What did she do?" I asked.

The decrepit old woman shrugged. "Gave in and married another, as her father told her to," she said simply. "Nearly forgot that scoundrel, too, up until he sauntered back, fresh from strange climes and still sniffin' about her skirts just the same as ever. Seems he hadn't forgotten, either." Our mother's mother sighed deeply. "And then the good boy we'd found for her got himself stuck on a stinger's halberd, leaving her free to marry again...and this time, we could not tell her no."

I gnawed on my lower lip. "She loved him," I blurted.

Our mother's mother gave me a very old look. "Yes," she said, and gestured at my mother with her crooked fingers. "And now look what he's done to her." She snorted again, and drew her blanket closer around herself, her needle-sharp eyes still trained on my mother's sleeping form. "Never fall in love, girl," the old woman told me. "No good can come of it."

I did not know why I was arguing with her. I never won. "Zebah came of it," I pointed out.

"And she is just as grieved," our grandmother retorted. She nodded her head at my sister, who was sleeping the sleep of the drugged. "And now we'll have to leave this place - don't eye me like that, girl, I know which way the wind's blowing - and neither of these ones will be in any shape to lead the way." The old woman huffed. "It'll have to fall to her sisters, I suppose," she muttered. "Good thing I had so many other daughters."

I gave up. The old woman could not be argued with. Besides, she was old, and bitter, and...

..._and she hates Hammad as much as I once did, _I thought, and stroked my mother's hair. _But he gave us Zebah. He made my mother smile. He taught me how to fight. So what if he did not have the knack of listening when people told him what to do? __Neither do I. _ If that made me a scoundrel, too, then at least I would be in good company. Better company than our grandmother's, that was for certain.

I watched my mother for a while – her, and Zebah. They both slept, fleeing their grief for a small measure of oblivion. I wondered why I could not do the same.

I was a very poor daughter, I decided. I should have wept and torn my hair and clothing with grief. I should have wailed to the sky like a mad thing.

I did none of those things.

Instead, all that I really wanted to do was to hit something. _Hard._

Abruptly, I stood, my hand wrapping around the hilt of my scimitar. _The acacia grove, _I thought. _Our place._

I kissed my mother's cheek, and left her to her sleep.

Then I went down to the grove where Hammad and I had spent so many of our mornings.

The trees were dead. Their leaves had fallen. Their trunks were grey with rot. They were a shadow of their former selves, just like the rest of this forsaken place that we called our home.

I had thought that going there might bring me comfort, or at least a sense of…something. Anything. But it brought me nothing except anger.

Unthinking, I drew my sword from its sheathe. The metallic scrape of steel made my blood leap, as it always did, except that this time I did not feel excitement. All I felt was a blind and hungry rage.

I had to hit something. If I did not, I would shatter into a million pieces, like glass, and I would be of no use to any of my tribe afterwards.

Screaming, I raised my scimitar and struck out at the trees. Dry bark splintered under my blade. Dust rose. Wood cracked, and split. Seams appeared in the trunks, as colorless and starved below as they were above.

Again and again, I swung. I swung until my shoulders ached and my breath came in pants. My teeth ground until my jaw felt like it might split. Tears ran down my cheeks.

When it was done, the trees lay in tatters. Some listed to one side, dead and broken beyond recovery. Others were criss-crossed with the marks of my scimitar, the bark blasted into slivers.

It occurred to me that I had probably just grievously offended the spirits of our oasis. I should have been ashamed, even fearful, but I could not bring myself to feel anything but _angry._

Perhaps _that_ was a fitting tribute to Hammad - blasphemy against those so-called gods and spirits who had failed him.

_To the Hells with the spirits, _I thought spitefully_. _My eyes burned. My heart cried out for revenge, because the lich had taken away too much, too much, and for that, I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands.

What had the spirits done to prevent this – any of this?

Anger took me over. Without thinking, I laid my scimitar across my palm. "Is it blood you want?" I demanded, my voice cracking on a scream. "Have you not drunk enough of al-Rashid's blood, spirits? Bah! Have it, then! Glut yourselves!"

Then, still without a thought in my head beyond the rage, I jerked my hand down, and felt the flesh of my palm give, opening under the blade.

My lips pulled back from my teeth, in pain and anger. I spun, and flung my hand out.

A line of blood spattered across the trees, a bloom of bright red against their dull and horrible grey. "Take it," I spat at the trees and their spirits. "Take it. What do I care? I swear, I will see that damned lich dead – with your help or without it."

I had already wiped my sword in the sand and turned away when the full realization of what I had done caught up with me.

I had sworn. I just had sworn to the spirits. It did not matter _why _I had sworn, or that it had been done in anger, or that I would have gladly sent them all to the Hells, had I had any choice in the matter.

I had sworn a blood oath to see the lich dead. Stupidly, blindly, willfully, I had tied myself to a single course, and I would have to see it through, or the spirits would punish me.

Worse – for that kind of insolence, they would punish my entire tribe. My _people,_ who were already teetering on the edge of annihilation. All it would take was one little push-

My legs gave way, dropping me to the sand with a heavy thud_._

_**Now**__ what am I going to do?_


	10. Chapter 10

10.

_I must be mad._

A sane, well-behaved daughter of the Bedine would not have defied her tribe and her sheikh in this manner.

_At least the moon is high. I can see well enough not to trip over my own feet._

That was cold comfort, after a day spent sweating in the sun and waiting for nightfall to hide me from _my own tribe._

_I must be mad._

Only a madwoman would hide from her own people. This was dishonorable. It was deranged. It was…

…_probably something Hammad would have done, actually. _I grimaced. _Spirits help me. I am turning into my uncle._

The moonlight had leeched all color from my surroundings. Everything was sketched in shades of grey. The blade of my scimitar was a silvery flash in the gloom, like a fish in deep water.

Cautiously, I stepped over what looked like a rock - a dark, irregular shape against the moon-silvered sand.

My foot came down on something soft.

I frowned bemusedly.

There were certain unalterable characteristics which I had always associated with rocks.

Foremost among them was the fact that they were not usually this squishy.

The apparent rock twitched.

Then, before I had gathered my wits enough to react, it grabbed my ankle.

I stared down at it. _That looks like a hand, _I thought in alarm. Then, more indignantly: _What is a hand doing there? Does Ali know about this?_

Something groaned in mindless, hungry pain. The sand heaved up, and I saw a dark and stinking shape rise above me.

Then I saw very little, because the thing did not let go of my ankle. Instead, it rose, and hauled me right off of my feet.

I dangled in midair, my shock quickly turning towards anger. Zombies did not hide under the sand! I had not expected this! This was not normal! Zombies came from the tomb in groups and stumbled around brainlessly until they found something living to kill! They did not ambush people! Since when did-

A sudden jerk made me sway and sent my thoughts scattering, and I realized that perhaps I should save my annoyance for when I was not about to be eaten by one of Kel-Garas's minions.

I still had my sword in my hand. Blindly, I fought my way through a billow of upended robes, calculated where the zombie's wrist must have been in relation to my foot, and swung.

I felt the slight resistance of the zombie's rot-riddled flesh, followed by the jarring, splintering sensation of my sword shearing through bone.

I dropped like a stone.

After two years of sparring with Hammad, I was used to being knocked over unexpectedly, and I had enough presence of mind to throw my weight so that I would not land on my head and snap my neck. Of all the ways I might like my tribe to find me dead, the prospect of them finding me head down in the sand with my robes around my waist was among the very _last._

A footstep scuffed. _Zombie, _I thought dazedly. My hand closed on a cobra-wrapped hilt. _Sword. Kill it._

_Right._

Somehow, I lurched to my feet, keeping my head beneath the zombie's ponderously swinging arms. Because I was so short, this was easier than I expected it to be.

When I thought I had outdistanced the thing's reach, I turned, swinging my blade to settle the grip more comfortably into my hand.

Moaning as if its tongue was far too swollen for its mouth, the zombie shambled towards me. The stump of its wrist was dripping some kind of ichor onto the sand. In this light, it looked black, but it would probably have smelled just as bad in any light. Its face was so bloated that it was barely recognizable as a face, for which I was grateful. I did not know how it would affect me, if I saw the face of someone I had known in life on this vile thing.

I backed away, thinking furiously. _They are slow, _I remembered from the stories. _They are too stupid to use weapons. They hit with their hands, and when they cannot hit, they bite._

I skirted around the zombie, my eyes wide to catch the light and my breath coming quickly. The thing turned to follow me. I moved faster. It tried to follow still, but it seemed unable to move any faster than the same dull, brainless, plodding pace that it had started out at.

Had this been Hammad, I might have assumed that it was bluffing and hiding its true speed from me, so that it would be able to send my blade flying and laugh at me.

Because it was not Hammad, I gauged its speed, ran around to its back, and swung at its neck.

My sword bit as far as the thing's backbone. Then it stopped.

I blinked, and tugged at my sword. It would not come loose. It seemed to be lodged in the zombie's spinal column.

I was strongly tempted to use one of Hammad's curses, but I did not want to offend the place spirits of our oasis more than I already had, so I just gritted my teeth and held on to my sword.

The zombie blindly tried to reach me, but its movements were stolid and sluggish, and I was holding on to the hilt of my scimitar for dear life. I was afraid that, if I let go if it, I would never get it back, and I expected that it would be even more difficult to kill this thing if I had to do it without a sword.

Through my blade's hilt, I felt the tremor of steel scraping against bone. _How am I going to salvage this? _ I wondered. I eyed the zombie's broad back, still clad in the tatters of a Bedine robe. _Ah. I think I have it._

Grimly, I balanced on one foot, lifted the other, and planted it as high up the zombie's back as I could. This obliged me to shuffle to one side as the zombie tried to turn, which was extraordinarily annoying. "Hold _still_, would you?" I snapped at it, somewhat irrationally, and wrenched my sword back and out.

It came loose suddenly, with the loud _crack _of snapping bone.

Overbalanced, I staggered backwards, my arms windmilling for balance. I decided to try one of Hammad's curses, after all. "Hell's Bells," I gasped, and reeled upright.

Belatedly, I heard shouting. My head snapped around. Torchlight bobbed over the oasis. Steel rang in the clear night air.

_There is fighting, _I thought suddenly, alarmed. _If they come this way, they will see me._

I had to kill the zombie, and to do it quickly. I could not be caught now. If I was, Ali would still be able to send me away to catch up with the other women, and I would never be able to keep my oath then.

I sighted on the zombie's neck. It was easy, because the thing's head was listing to one side like the canopy of a tree whose trunk had been cracked at the base.

_There, _I thought, and then, when I thought I could remember the angle that my sword had gone in at the last time, I swung, angling the edge of my blade to catch the crack in the bone.

This time, my blade crunched all of the way through the rotten bone.

The zombie's head spun off into the darkness. The headless body toppled over limply, robbed of whatever animation its decayed brain had given it.

I stared at it, the urge to howl like a hyena rising in my throat.

Sweet spirits. That had been _fun_.

_That is it. I must be mad. Only a madwoman would have enjoyed that._

More men shouted. I half-ducked and looked around warily.

_Forget madness. I need somewhere to hide._

My eyes fell on a low, oblong structure, half-buried in the sand.

_Al-Rashid's tomb._

_* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *_

The door to my ancestor's tomb was stuck.

It was true that my people were not very good stonemasons. What need did we have for such a skill? Stone buildings were very hard to pick up and carry with you when you needed to break camp, after all.

Still, I wished that whichever of my ancestors had built this had been a little better at the art. I was getting very tired of heaving and shoving and banging at the door to get it to close.

_It can stay like that, _I decided eventually, and sank down against the door breathlessly. The rough stone scraped unpleasantly against my back. I was glad that I had my robes between the stone and my skin. _I would rather leave the door open a crack than be trapped in here forever because I can not re-open it. No one will think to look for me here, anyway._

While I sat and caught my breath, I took the opportunity to look about the tomb curiously. The last time I had seen it, I had been barely old enough to walk.

Lights flickered on either side of al-Rashid's sarcophagus. It was said that the lights burned with the blessing of the spirits, though I had always wondered how that could be the case. If they were witchlights, the spirits would not bless them, of course – but if they were not magical, they would eventually die, or so I supposed. Perhaps they were some variety of non-magical magical lights?

I took a few steps further into the tomb. It was bare sandstone, dusty and grit-choked. I had only been here once, and both times it had struck me as a grim place to rest for all of eternity. I did not envy al-Rashid.

My tribe usually burned our dead and gave them to the night winds. The stories said that it had not always been so. The other Bedine built cairns, or buried their dead beneath the sands. We had been like them, once.

_But the dead of the other tribes do not rise again to haunt them, _I thought bleakly. _They do not have our curse to concern them._

A miserable chill ran through me. I had so far managed to avoid thinking too much of what had become of my uncle. But, in this place, the air so thick with the stillness of death, it was impossible to avoid such thoughts.

_It was not him, _I told myself, my breath hitching. _The thing which came back from the tomb…it was not Hammad._

The stories said that those who were turned after death were denied the peace of true death. The stories were unclear on whether being burned with ceremony gave them their final peace, or if Kel-Garas's poisonous magic would forever leave his victims' souls restless.

_Hammad cannot be suffering still, _I thought fiercely. _He cannot. The gods would not be so cruel._

I realized that my scimitar had come back to my hand, in the same instant that I realized that I very badly wanted to hit something. Again. Why was that always my response to everything?

I made myself lower the blade. This was the tomb of our great ancestor, al-Rashid. It was not seemly to bash it with my sword.

More to the point, our ancestor would not approve if I dulled my sword's edge on this stone. I did not know whether the disrespect would anger the ancient warrior, but I was certain that the waste of good steel would.

The sarcophagus which held our ancestor loomed on the far side of the tomb. I did not know why I expected it to move, or to glow, or to do _something_ exceptional, but I did. Perhaps it just did not seem right, that the ancestor who had defeated Kel-Garas should just lie there, as inert and silent as any other corpse.

I took another few steps, approaching the sarcophagus as quietly as a mouse. Once there, I stood up on my tiptoes and peeked over the edge at the man who had begat my entire bloodline.

Hammad had always called al-Rashid _our moldering ancestor, _but there was, in truth, not much about al-Rashid that moldered. The desert air had stolen fat and muscle until nothing but skin, as brown and tough as leather, remained to cover our ancestor's bones. Despite that, there was much of him that looked as if he had not been dead for very long at all. There were still tufts of hair clinging to his desiccated skull, and there were still hints of what he might have looked like in life, etched in the sunken lines of his face. There was a strange and profound dignity to the way our ancestor lay there, his hands folded over his chest and his hollow eyes fixed on the farthest horizon of them all.

Al-Rashid's hands were empty, I noticed. He no longer had his sword. Ali must have kept it, deeming it more helpful in the hands of the living than the hands of the dead.

I folded my arms on the edge of our ancestor's sarcophagus, and rested my chin on them, regarding him curiously.

I was not afraid. This was my ancestor, al-Rashid, and he would do me no harm. Besides, I was Bedine. From the day of my birth, I had been exposed to death in its various forms. All of my brothers had lived to adulthood, but that was already rare, and many of my other kin and tribesmen had not made it so far, or had grown to adulthood and died while still young. A laertis spear had taken them, or the poison of a stinger, or the arrow from a cowardly D'tarig, or some sickness which we could not heal and which the outlander caravans arrived too late to work their strange magics on.

Many things were to be feared – shame, dishonor, betrayal, exile, enslavement to the lich, watching the extinction of our entire tribe. _Those _fears formed a knot in the pit of my stomach and made me want to sit down on the cold stone floor and cry.

Death was not one of those things. It was merely another part of life.

Eventually, I spoke. It was either that, or crumble under this weighty, pressing silence. "I wonder what you would think of me," I said out loud, speaking to my old ancestor. My lips twisted in a smile that was most likely odd. "A woman with a sword. What has your tribe come to, al-Rashid?"

Al-Rashid, predictably, did not reply. I fell silent, for a time. "But it is my tribe, too," I whispered at last. "I swore to defend it. And I will. By my blood, I will."

It had all seemed so simple, once I had thought about it enough. I had promised Hammad that I would defend my mother and Zebah. I had promised the spirits that I would revenge Hammad's death.

I had wondered long and hard how to reconcile the two oaths, until I had realized that they were one and the same.

Zebah and my mother would not be safe as long as Kel-Garas lived. If he won here, he would hunt down the last of al-Rashid's line, and they would die just the same. If I angered the spirits, they would help him to win here. They were known to be vengeful beyond all reason.

The only way to protect my people was to see Kel-Garas dead, as I had promised.

I only hoped that my mother and Zebah would see it that way.

I stared at al-Rashid, my vision going dull. "It was almost too easy," I said glumly. "Our mother is distracted by her grief. Zebah as well. They did not even notice when I fell behind the camel train." Pensively, I gnawed my lower lip. "The others paid me no mind," I added confidingly, and snorted. "They never do." I was a sullen girl, and to be left to my own devices. Everyone knew that.

_And so I am here, and I will wait for the others to get so far away that Ali will not send me to join them. Then I will stay here, and do as I swore to – or die trying._

It had all seemed so simple. But now, in the silence of the tomb, I wondered whether I had not made a very big mistake.

My stomach churning, I turned and huddled down against our ancestor's sarcophagus. The stone was very cold and uncomfortable. It did not help my mood.

_Mother and Zebah are going to be very upset, _I thought glumly.

_Yes, _another part of my brain argued. _But they will be guarded by a dozen swords – and, more to the point, they will be alive. Won't you guard them better if you keep your oath?_

I did not know the answer to that. I wished that al-Rashid would say something, perhaps even counsel me. He had been very wise in life, and, if any part of him remained here in this world, it must have grown even wiser in death.

Unfortunately, he said not a word, and I was left to the silence, and to the questionable mercy of my own thoughts.


	11. Chapter 11

11.

I ate and drank, when I was hungry and thirsty. I slept, a little, and I watched the sun through a crack in the door.

The sun took such a long time to rise again, and then such a long time to fade.

Time passed without much measure, and my thoughts weighed heavily on me. I wondered what Mother and Zebah were doing. I hoped that they had not noticed my absence, though that was unlikely. Failing that, I hoped that they were not too distraught. They had seemed so fragile, after losing Hammad. I had not meant to worry them. I had meant to save them from the consequences of my own offense against the spirits. I just did not know if they would see it that way.

I did not know why I had not collapsed in grief as they had. I had only gotten angry. I still was, though it was easier to bear, now. I kept my oath in my mind, and I pictured Kel-Garas's ugly face cloven in two, and the heat of my anger evaporated the tears which tried to spill down my cheeks whenever I thought of Hammad.

I half-expected to see my uncle shove open the door to the tomb and stride in to ask me what the devil I was doing in here. It was a nonsensical thought, but it persisted nonetheless. It was hard to believe that he was gone. It was harder still to believe that he had been defeated by Kel-Garas. If anyone could have survived against the lich, it should have been him.

_So what does that mean for the rest of us? _I wondered, and the fear tightened its grip on my belly. I imagined our entire line becoming enslaved to our ancient enemy, forced to fight at his whim. I pictured us as mere shambling remnants of what we had been in life. I did not particularly want to think of these things, but my imagination presented them to me, nonetheless.

To divert myself from such thoughts, I poked around al-Rashid's tomb, looking for anything that might give me a clue to our ancestor's life.

There was not much to see. The stone was mostly bare. There was the dust. There were the witchlights. There was the sarcophagus, which was a strange thing among us, but perhaps al-Rashid's next of kin had thought it fitting to honor his body in a way which differed from the usual traditions. Perhaps they had thought that, as they had been tied to their new home, forsaking their nomadic ways for the duty that was laid upon them, it was appropriate to change the way in which they honored their dead.

Or perhaps it had simply been convenient to house al-Rashid's body and weapon in a structure that would not decay with time, and would remain easy to find again.

_Or perhaps, _I thought, settling down behind al-Rashid's sarcophagus to stare at the wall just behind it, _Perhaps they just needed a map._

Stone carving was not a talent which belonged to my people. Still, someone had managed to force the stone to take lines, and from those lines grew a strange pattern which tugged at my mind, as if I should recognize it.

After I stared at it for a while, I thought I understood. The trick was not so much to reason my way through it as to disengage my brain and let the forms guide me. Those inverted triangles, there – those were mountains, rising from the flat sands. Those sinuous shapes, they were the dunes, and the round circles, the largest of which bore the mark of our tribe, those were oases.

Elsewhere, standing lines had been slashed into stone, and horizontal lines had been laid across them. It took me some thinking, but eventually I concluded that those must be the signs of a city, made in the manner of outlanders. Only roofed buildings would be flat across the top, and clustered together like that. That was because only an idiot would erect a tent with a flat top, for sand to collect and make it collapse, and only an utter fool would leave so many tents straggling around the perimeter of the camp like that, practically begging for an attack.

One of those cities had a twisting pair of parallel lines carved beneath it, the space between them still stained dark with ochre. _That looks like a tunnel, _I mused, shuffling closer until I nearly had my nose pressed against the stone. _It must go underground._

There was a strange sign at the bottom of the tunnel, a circle within the circle. The larger circle was dark, and the smaller, still flecked with the remnants of gold, was rimmed with inward slashes, like teeth.

I half-raised my hand as if to touch the carving. _The path of al-Rashid, _I thought in wonder, and lowered my hand reverently. Here was our ancestor's famed journey across the desert and down into the realm of the phaerimm, chiseled into the stone for all who came here to see.

I was far from the first of our tribe to see it. Gods willing, I would not be the last.

Gingerly, I huddled against our ancestor's coffin. He was not very comforting, our al-Rashid – but his company was better than no company at all.

Time crawled past. The sliver of sunlight beyond the door went away again.

I wondered what Ali was doing. I hoped that he had not killed Kel-Garas without me.

To make the time pass more quickly, I thought of what I would say to my brother when I revealed my presence to him. Wistfully, I thought of what it might be like to fight side-by-side with all of my brothers. Would they be proud, if they knew that I could fight? Or would they be ashamed of me?

I felt my lower lip tremble at the thought. I doubted that most of my brothers would be proud, to tell the truth. Why should they be? I was not right in the head.

_Hammad was not entirely right in the head,_ I argued with myself. _And everyone accepted _him_ as he was._

_Yes, but he was the sheikh, _another part of my brain retorted_. Sheikhs are allowed to be a little strange. It is their right._

I pulled my knees to my chest and stared glumly at al-Rashid's map. I had stared at it so much by now that I thought I could sketch it from memory – much good it would do me. The phaerimm was dead, and its protections were gone with it.

I waited until the light began to kindle again. _Two days, _I thought. _Two days is enough. No more. I cannot take any more of this._

Stiffly, I pushed myself to my feet and adjusted the lay of my sword belt around my hips. I did not bother to conceal it, this time. My brothers would find out about it soon enough, anyway.

I just wished that my heart would listen to my logic, and stop its nervous thundering. My face was already turning red, and I had not even left the tomb yet.

_I am the blood of al-Rashid. There is nothing to be ashamed of, _I counseled myself, and reached for the door.

It opened with a deafening grinding noise. I winced, both at the noise and the sunlight. After two days in a tomb, the sun was blinding.

_I am the blood of al-Rashid, _I reminded myself, and stepped out.

The oasis was quiet. It was morning, and the air smelled like smoke.

_They will be burning the undead, to make sure they do not come back tomorrow night, _I thought. The scent was almost familiar, after two years of steadily increasing attacks, but I could not say that it was comforting.

Taking a deep breath, I wrapped my hand around the hilt of my scimitar and started walking.

My steps nearly faltered when I saw the first black-robed figures moving around the dry oasis. They were busy hauling corpses away, and did not seem to have seen me. That state of affairs would not last long, however.

I took another breath, and then, because that one did not quite stop the choked feeling in my throat, I took another one still.

_I am the blood of al-Rashid, _I told myself, and walked forward, trying to mimic Hammad's easy saunter, the one he walked when he was not in a hurry and thought he might see whom he could surprise with a visit from the sheikh. I did not acknowledge the stares, not even when the murmurs started. _There is nothing to be ashamed of. There is nothing-_

I felt a flush creep up the back of my neck.

_Hell's Bells. They are all _staring_ at me._

My steps slowed. Zombies I could face. The shocked faces of my tribesmen, on the other hand - _those_ made me want to run back to the tomb, barricade the door, pull the rocks over my head, and shrink into a very small, very embarrassed ball.

_No! _I nearly stamped my foot. _ I am a direct descendant of al-Rashid – and most of these men are not. Why should I cower?_

I lifted my chin, set my jaw, and marched over to a man I thought I recognized, looking neither right nor left. "Malik," I greeted my brother curtly. "Where is Ali?"

The answer seemed to come out of him automatically, as if he had been startled into truthfulness. "In the temple," he replied promptly. Then, more confusedly, he added, "How…Nadiya, what are you-"

I ignored him. "Thank you," I said, because our mother had taught me to be polite. Then, before my brother could think of any further objections, I changed direction and strode away as swiftly as I could without _actually_ running.

The inner door was open. I ducked through it before I could think better of it.

The shift from sun to shade was dazzling. It took me a few long and nervous moments to blink away the spots.

Before I entered, I vaguely remembered hearing the hum of conversation. Now, it had stopped.

My eyes cleared. I saw my brother, his head turned sharply in my direction. He had half-risen from his chair, and now he was frozen in that pose, his eyes fixed on me as if he had seen a ghost. "Nadiya!" he exclaimed. "What are you- " My brother's gaze shifted to the scimitar at my hip. "Oh, no," he said then, in tones of grim and incredulous dread. "Oh, no, no, no-"

One of the men – our mother's brother, Harim – looked back and forth between us, one eyebrow lifted. Then he folded his hands in front of his chest and bowed. "With your permission, my sheikh, we will continue our discussion later," he suggested tactfully. His face was carefully blank. "May we withdraw?"

Ali waved a hand in the man's direction. He did not take his eyes from me. "Yes," he said tautly. "Thank you, Hiram."

The other men filed out. Each one glanced at me while they passed. Some of the glances were amused. Others were disgusted. A few were as blank as Hiram's.

When they were gone, Ali and I stared at one another. I did not know what to say to break the silence, and he appeared to be at an equally complete loss for words.

Eventually, though, Ali did speak. "I can only hope that you can offer a good explanation for why you are here," he said. There was a tight edge to his voice that I did not like. He looked very tired.

I stared at him. I had rehearsed this conversation over and over in my mind during the past two days. I had gone over all of the things I thought Ali might say, and all of the things I might say, and all of my good reasons for doing what I had done. I had been so certain that my brother could be brought 'round to my way of thinking.

That was why I was so nonplussed when I opened my mouth, and all that came out of it was a weak, altogether too uncertain, "Um."

Ali stared at me for a moment longer. Then, wearily, he sank his head into his hands. "I was afraid that you might say something like that," my brother sighed.

* * *

Ali did not like my news at all, and he would hear none of my arguments.

"You swore to see the lich dead," he said stiffly. "Very well – you will go to join the other women, and when you return, I will announce the news of his death to you. Then the spirits will be satisfied."

My hand tightened convulsively around the hilt of my sword. "You know it does not work like that, brother," I protested.

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "How does it work, then?"

I did not like this new Ali. He was still Ali, but there was a crazy tension to him, a desperate and brittle hardness that had not been there before. "When I swore the oath, I meant to see the lich dead with my own eyes," I persisted desperately. "Ali-"

"Good," he cut me off abruptly. "We will preserve the corpse for you."

I gritted my teeth. "Ali-"

"_No_." His eyes softened, and, for a moment, he became the Ali that I knew. "Nadiya…you are my _sister_," he said, and I heard the grief in it, still raw and bleeding. "I will not see you murdered and added to the lich's army, too."

I stared him. "And you expect me to see you suffer the same fate?" I asked harshly.

He shrugged. "It is my place as warrior and sheikh," he said simply.

I scowled. "And my place as a woman is to watch my men die, and hope that I live to pick up the pieces?" I retorted.

At that, the hardness went out of my brother's shoulders. They slumped, and he reached up to pinch the bridge of his noise. "Nadiya," he protested, his voice strained. "I wish you would listen to reason-"

"And I wish you would listen to me!" I erupted. "It is too late to send me back, Ali! You will not send me across the desert alone, and you cannot spare any more warriors to escort me."

He stood abruptly. "And what am I to do?" he demanded. "Let you stay?"

"Yes!" Impulsively, I drew my blade. The steel slithered out of the scabbard. My brother blanched slightly at the sound. I tried to ignore the little stab of hurt his look caused in me. "Look, Ali!" I pleaded, brandishing my weapon. "I have a sword. I can fight. Hammad taught me."

"Hamma-" My brother bit our uncle's name off abruptly. The flicker of pain in his eyes nearly made me want to put down my sword – nearly. "_He _put that steel in your hand?" my brother asked incredulously. He sank his face into his hands and dropped back into his chair. Ali's voice became muffled. "I think I am going to have a headache."

I grimaced with a mix of remorse and annoyance. "Ali-"

"And then I will take a nap," my brother went on, ignoring my interruption. "And then, when I wake up, the image of my sister waving a _scimitar_ at me – in a manner which says that, spirits forfend, she actually knows how to _use _the thing - will turn out to have been no more than a very bad dream-"

I scowled. "It is not a bad dream," I protested. "It is real. Hammad started training me two years past."

Ali looked up. His eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "That was when you-"

"Burned the zombie. Yes." I flexed my fingers around the hilt of my sword, feeling the now-familiar pull of the scarring across my forearm. "Hammad said…he said that if I was going to attack the zombies anyway, he might as well arm me."

Ali stared at me a few moments longer. His eyes were hard to read, even for me. Bemusement was there, and affection, and dismay, and sadness, as well as a certain amount of pure, undiluted perplexity – the latter, along with affection, being his usual expression when dealing with me. "Be that as it may," he said at last, and his eyes hardened. "Hammad's decisions were Hammad's. This one, unfortunately, is mine." He waved a hand at me, suddenly looking much older than he had any right to look. "Put that away," he said quietly. "You cannot fight, Nadiya."

My nostrils flared as I sucked in an outraged breath. It was either that, or scream. "Oh?" I retorted. "I cannot?" A wild idea occurred to me, and, before I could think the better of it, I acted. "Then I obviously cannot do-" and I flicked the tip of my blade at my brother, lightly, drawing a tear in the shoulder of his robes. "-this!" I smirked at his startled expression. "Well, brother? Will you draw your sword, so that I can prove my skill to you?"

Ali blinked and looked down at his shoulder. Then he looked back up, his eyes narrowing. "I do not care what you can do," he replied evenly. "I am _not _going to draw steel on my own sister."

I shrugged, and slashed at his midsection, making him twist aside like a snake. "Your mistake," I countered.

He stared at me. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. "You _must_ be joking," he said mildly.

I swung my blade back and forth, listening to its pleasing _thrum-thrum _as it cut through the air. "You know me, my brother," I replied blandly. "I never joke."

He cocked his head at me. His eyes went still and sad. "Now you sound like Hammad," he murmured.

That stole my eagerness for a fight away from me. I lowered my sword, slowly. "At least one of us does," I said tartly, without thinking. Then, too late, I realized what I had said, and my entire body seemed to cringe inward in humiliated remorse. "Oh, spirits, Ali," I blurted, aghast at my own words. Why was it that I could never seem to speak without saying the wrong thing? "I did not mean…you are a fine sheikh…of course you are…that was not-

His lashes lowered in a wince, and he looked away, as if he found it difficult to look at me. Weariness settled over his face. I wondered when he had last slept_. _"I know that I am not Hammad," he said, very quietly.

I reached for his hands before I realized that I was still holding my sword. Hurriedly, I sheathed it, and I stepped forward. "You do not have to be," I said urgently. I had hurt him with my words. I had to make it right. "Ali, you are brave, and kind, and you are smarter than all of our brothers stacked one on top of another-"

"Which is still half as smart as the average camel," Ali interrupted drily.

Startled, I giggled. My eyes stung. I blinked the tears away. "There, do you see?" I asked impishly. "Now you certainly sound like Hammad."

Ali's smile faded. "Perhaps – but it is not enough to _sound _like him," he said morosely. He was silent for a few moments, drumming his fingers against his sword belt and glancing around as if to ascertain that there was no one else nearby. "I am terrified half out of my wits, little sister," he said eventually, in a voice that was scarcely audible. He took a breath and let his head fall back, closing his eyes. "I have never been a leader of men," he went on in a low voice. "And now I must lead them all, quite possibly to their deaths – and I cannot even voice my fears, because to do so will only encourage theirs, and then they will lose their nerve. So I must sit, and listen, and command, and pretend a confidence I do not feel. Do you know what that is like, little sister?"

Slowly, I crossed the tent to his chair. I knelt by its side. "No," I said, and wrapped my hands around his knuckles, which were white and clenched on the arm of the chair nearly hard enough to break it. "I do not."

Ali made a noise of what might have been agreement, or the beginnings of a laugh, or perhaps just acknowledgement of my words. He fell silent again, for so long that, if not for the tension in the tendons of his hand, I would have thought he had fallen asleep. "Do you know why we sent the women away?" he asked abruptly.

I hesitated. Then I shrugged. "To keep us safe," I answered shortly. "That was what Hammad said."

Ali gave a slight shake of his head. "It was more than that," he disagreed. Without opening his eyes, he lifted his free hand and placed it on top of mine. "You are a distraction," he said. "You are a weakness. While you are here, a part of our minds will always be on protecting our wives and sisters and daughters. It will not be on the battle in front of us."

I stared dully at my brother's hand. "It is my fight, too," I protested, but my protest sounded feeble, even to my own ears. "It is my home."

"Yes. And if I allow you to take the field, you will be the focus of every warrior's attention. They will drop everything to protect you – or to censure you." Ali sighed, and opened his eyes. "I need their attention on the lich and his army," he told me softly. "Not on you."

I would have liked to find a good retort, but I could not think of any. My brother was a goat – but he was also, I feared, right. He usually was.

I felt his hand lift from mine to touch my cheek. "Nadiya, my sister," he said softly. "You will stay, because you are right - I cannot send you away. Not now. But you will stay in the temple unless I say otherwise, and you will keep that sword sheathed unless it means your life to do so. Do you understand me?"

I lowered my eyes in sullen obedience. What else could I do? I could argue all I liked, but a command was a command, and Ali was the first among equals - I could not disobey. "By your will, my sheikh," I murmured my acquiescence.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Many and belated thanks and lots of cookies to Bronxwench for offering her patient beta-reading and advice when I've asked for it. I'd like to think that the story is better for it. _

_Also, it's probably time for our periodic reminder that I do not own this world or its characters, with the exception of Nadiya and a few other, minor cast members. I wouldn't argue with Nadiya about that, either. She gets real feisty when people disagree with her._

12.

The men were singing again.

They did that with every death, and they did it every time one of us came back from death. Either was an occasion for mourning.

I sat on the sill of the temple's front window and watched the smoke curl up through the noontime air. The sky was pale blue, and there were no clouds. The day was already hot, and would most likely become hotter.

_The corpses are truly going to stink today, _I thought glumly.

One of the corpses was undoubtedly that of our mother's brother, Hiram. I had not known him well, but he had always been kind enough to me.

Hiram had vanished two days prior. Then he had come back. The warriors had killed him again, this time for good. Now he was being burned, along with all of the others who had returned to us in that way.

It had been a strange few tendays. When we were not being attacked, we were waiting to be attacked. The undead no longer came only at night, but at all times of day. Kel-Garas appeared to enjoy surprises.

We seldom left the temple, now, unless it was to conduct raids into the lich's tomb. When that happened, we did not have much to show for it, other than more men to burn two days after. Ali had confided in me that he would not try that again. I did not blame him. We were down to a few dozen warriors, and more seemed to die every day. Those who fell in battle, we burned, so that the armies of the lich would not drag their corpses away, too, and turn _them _into zombies.

I hoped that it would not hurt, being turned into a zombie – or, if it did, I hoped that it would end once they burned me.

Below me, those men who needed it, rested. Many slept. Some ate. Others polished their swords. A scattered few sat and stared into space.

Most of them ignored my presence there. Some of them did so politely, as was appropriate - I was not directly related to all of them, nor was I married to any of them, and so it was not very seemly for us to speak directly. Others ignored me as if I did not – or perhaps should not – even exist.

They had argued over me, those men. Some had thought that I should be sent away without an escort, for my disobedience. Some few had suggested that I be sent out to fight, if that was what I wanted. "Let the lich take the sullen girl," they had sneered. Ali had gotten very angry, then. I would have been happy for his defense, if not for the fact that I was the reason he was obliged to deal with this in the first place.

I had tried not to listen to the arguments, but it was hard, when there were men shouting about you not six feet from where you sat.

I had stopped speaking to any of my relatives but Ali several days ago. Ali spoke little, anyway. Day by day, his words grew fewer and terser, and the lines of his face grew gaunter and more drawn.

I held his hand, when I could – when the other men would not see, and consider it a weakness for him to be comforted by his little sister. That was mostly at night, when everyone else was sleeping. At those times, Ali gripped my hand so tightly that I felt my bones grind together. I said nothing. What could I say that would make it better?

I stared out of the window. There were figures striding up to the temple. They seemed to be in a hurry. I thought I recognized Ali and a few of his warriors, but Ali had the arm of another which was unfamiliar to me. Sunlight glinted off of metal armor.

Abruptly, I sat upright. In my urgency, I forgot my manners. "Ali is coming!" I announced shrilly. "Open the doors!"

A few of the nearest men exchanged glances. "He was on watch," one of them murmured. "If he is back so soon, it must be-"

A hollow pounding sounded against the doors. It sounded like someone had banged the hilt of a scimitar against the wood.

"-urgent?" the man finished in a startled voice. Several of them leapt up and hurried to unbar the doors.

The opening door nearly knocked them all flat on their backs. "Close that," Ali snapped over his shoulder. He pushed someone ahead of him, who stumbled slightly over the threshold.

I stared down at them both, speechless.

The intruder who seemed to have so offended Ali was not only an outlander.

She was a woman. And Ali looked very, very angry indeed.

* * *

Ali bound the woman to one of the columns. I could see that he was trying to be gentle, though there was a snap to his motions that betrayed his agitation.

They spoke, briefly. Then his face darkened at something she said, and he rose, turning away from her.

Had she been Bedine, she might have recognized the scorn he showed her by turning his back on her. It said that she was of so little threat to him that he could afford to ignore her. I doubted, however, that she appreciated the insult.

To my surprise, Ali veered towards me. "Come down from there, Nadiya," he ordered, in his sheikh's voice.

I frowned, and slipped down from the window ledge, holding my robes tightly to keep them from sliding up and showing my legs to all and sundry. I had offended enough sensibilities lately. I did not need to add to it. "What is it, Ali?" I asked quietly. My eyes kept darting to the woman and away. I was not certain why. I had seen outlanders – men _and _women – when the caravans came, though usually the women did not go about armored. "Who is she?"

My brother lent his hands to help me down. He ignored my questions. "Have you done anything _else _to anger the spirits recently?" he asked instead, tartly.

I blinked. "Not since the last time," I answered honestly. "Why?"

My brother wore an expression of despair that verged on hilarity, as if events had reached such a level of absurdity that he was not certain whether to laugh or to cry. "She is a priestess of Shaundakul," he hissed to me. "A caravan came, seeking water…and _she _was among them. Can you believe the ill luck?"

I stared up at him, not quite believing my ears. "A priestess of-"

My brother's expression turned pained. "Please do not make me repeat it, Nadiya."

Confused, I spared a glance towards the woman. I had heard the stories of Shaundakul, the Treacherous Lurker in the Sands, and his many trickeries. I did not know what I had expected from a priestess of that evil god, but… "She does not look that dangerous," I said dubiously. Mostly, the strange woman looked tired and flushed from the heat.

Ali shrugged. "Looks can be deceiving," he averred. "Especially in those who follow that great trickster."

I thought about that. "Perhaps you should gag her?" I suggested helpfully.

"I swore not to mistreat her."

I blinked again. "Why did you do that?"

"Because she did not come alone, and I wanted-" Ali grimaced slightly, as if his own words left a foul taste in his mouth. "I wanted to _buy _her companion's good behavior," he finished grimly.

"Why?" I asked curiously. I had only seen one outlander, not two. "Who is her companion? Where has she – he? - gone?"

I had not thought it possible for Ali's face to darken any further, but it did. "_He _is a mage."

My jaw dropped. "A ma-"

Annoyance flickered across my brother's face. "Nadiya, would you please stop repeating everything I say?" he asked plaintively. "Talking to you is making me feel as if I am shouting into a canyon."

I flushed. "Yes, my brother," I mumbled.

Ali took one look at my reddening cheeks and sighed. His voice softened slightly. "They were encircled by undead when we found them near the wadi," he explained. "I saw how they fought. She was no warrior, and used none of her magic, but he…he was not troubled by the undead. Far from it."

"So where has he gone?"

Ali's voice was flat. "To the tomb."

"The t-" I caught my brother's long-suffering look and stuttered to a stop. Warily, I peeked behind him to see if anyone was standing near us, and I lowered my voice. "You would send an outlander mage to do what Hammad could not?"

My brother smiled wryly, though there was little humor in it. "As you have so often said, Nadiya…it takes magic to fight magic. If he succeeds, we will be free of our curse-"

"And if he betrays us?"

He shrugged. "That is why we have her," he said smoothly. "Her welfare appears to be of some importance to the outlander mage, though he of course denies it. She will be a hostage to his good behavior."

I felt a faint smile curve my lips. "That sounds like something Hammad would say," I complimented my brother.

He inclined his head gravely, though there was a bittersweet quirk to his lips. "Thank you," he said softly. Then he sighed, and lowered his head to speak in a near-whisper. "Am I doing the right thing, Nadiya?" he asked suddenly. "I have allowed a mage into our home, though the gods have told us never to trust them. I have allowed him into the tomb-"

I frowned up at my brother. "Of course you have done the right thing, Ali. If he fails, we will be dead anyway," I argued – reasonably, I thought. "And if he succeeds, well, it is easier to ask forgiveness than it is to ask permission." I shrugged. "We can apologize to the spirit world afterwards."

Ali gave me a bemused glance. "That also sounds like something Hammad would say."

I gave him a brief bow. "Thank you, oh sheikh."

Ali's next words deflated my pride like a punctured bladder. "Do not thank me," he said, just as blandly. "Hammad's influence is part of the reason why you defied my orders and stayed here. You thought it was better to ask _my_ forgiveness than my permission, did you not?"

All words – excuses, prevarications, even mere retorts – fled me at the look of mild, knowing censure on my brother's face. "Er," I said.

My brother sighed and rolled his eyes. "Well, at least Hammad's influence has not taught you how to lie," he murmured drily. Then he stepped away, straightening. His face returned to its grim sheikh's mask. "I will need water," he said abruptly. "What do we have to spare?"

I responded in kind, crossing my arms over my chest and stiffening slightly. I did not like Ali-the-sheikh nearly as much as I liked Ali-my-brother. "For yourself?"

Ali's face twisted in distaste. "For _her_." The tone of his voice left no doubt as to whom he meant. "She is an outlander. She has already lost too much water today, fighting. She does not understand how quickly thirst can kill her."

I bowed quickly and found a spare skin of water and a cup, which I gave to Ali.

Then, my duty apparently satisfied for the time being, I sat down in the shadow of a column, out of the way of things.

Because I had nothing else to do, I examined the stranger as Ali knelt before her and offered her the water to drink.

The woman had long, curly dark hair and pale eyes, not unlike Zebah's. Her skin was paler than I was used to seeing, and flushed from the sun and the heat, but there was something about her that reminded me of our mother, which was strange. Though they were both tall and dark-haired, they did not truly look at all alike, and while this woman's features were compelling enough in a severe sort of way, she was certainly not our mother's equal in either beauty or grace.

I chewed on my lower lip and stared at her openly, trying to decide what it was about her that seemed so familiar. It was something in her bearing, I decided – the regal way in which she held her head, perhaps, or the haughty arch to her eyebrows - that suggested that here was a woman who was accustomed to being obeyed. Perhaps that was it.

She was not being obeyed now, of course. As a matter of fact, she was quite helpless, and had no authority here. But I doubted that our mother would let that stop her, either. Whatever her circumstances, she would always be the wife of a sheikh at heart. This woman had much the same attitude. She was disarmed and tied to a column and her leather-and-scale was covered in dust and blood, but she neither glanced at the ropes binding her nor acknowledged them in any way, as if they were an irrelevancy.

I wondered who this mage was who had come with her, and whether he was anything like she was. Was he a brother, or a husband, or an uncle? Whatever relation he bore to her, I tried not to hope that he would succeed, because I could not see how one outlander mage could do what Hammad could not. Then, abruptly, I changed my mind, and I _did_ allow myself to hope for his success, because while I was not certain what Kel-Garas would do with a dead mage, I was certain that it would not be good for us.

_It will be what it will be, _I thought wearily, and let my head fall back against the column. The stone still felt very unfriendly, but at least it was cool. _Trust in Ali. He is much less of a goat than the rest of my brothers._

I had just begun to doze off when I heard a far-off boom, almost as if a boulder had toppled from a cliff and hit the ground below.

My eyes popped open. My head jerked forward. I thought I felt a tremor in the stones beneath me.

_Kel-Garas, _I thought, and reached for my sword instinctively. Then I remembered that I was not allowed to draw it, and I stopped. _Has he-_

The door boomed under the urgent pounding of one of our tribe. Men rushed to open it at Ali's command. Sunlight streamed in, though it was immediately blocked by black-robed bodies.

Malik staggered through first. He was covered in a fine layer of dust, and his eyes were as wide as if he'd seen a waking nightmare. "Ali," he gasped, and stood, swaying, in the temple's dim half-light. "The tomb - something is happening at the tomb."


	13. Chapter 13

13.

Kel-Garas was awake.

He was also very, very angry.

I stared down at the tomb. I had never seen it before – never this close. It was forbidden for any but the warriors to come this far, and that was one injunction which I had always heeded. The consequences of wandering into Kel-Garas's clutches had been made very clear to me from a very young age.

_It looks so…insignificant, _I thought numbly, staring at the mouth of the lich's tomb. There was a deep canyon between the oasis and the tomb, bridged by a span of stone. On the far side, there was a door carved into the cliff.

That was it. That was all.

The home of our tribe's curse, the place from where nightmares sprung – just an unremarkable gap in a cliff of sandstone, with a narrow sliver of darkness behind it.

Of course, there may have been more to it than that. I could not see it very well, because there was an army in the way.

The tomb's mouth was vomiting up a sea of undead. Grey flesh and white bone jumbled together. Among them, I thought I saw shapes with wings. _The lich's stone guardians, _I thought, disbelieving. I had only heard of them in stories. No one in living memory had ever _fought _them. How _did _you fight something that was made of stone?

The others were talking, Ali and the men and their captive, but I could not hear them beyond the buzzing in my ears. The noon sun cast no shadow, and it struck me as very cruel of that harsh light to sketch the details of Kel-Garas's army so strongly.

A hand on my shoulder made me jump. "Sister," Ali's voice said, cracking slightly on the word. "Nadiya, look at me."

I turned my head, dazed. My brother's eyes glittered with a kind of manic despair, and he looked at me as if the weight of his guilt was on the verge of crushing him.

The sight of him rattled some of my shock away. "Ali," I replied hoarsely. I took a breath, and straightened, touching his hand lightly. I could not let him see how frightened I was. If I did, the guilt really would crush him. "I am here, Ali," I said, wishing my voice would not shake. "I chose to be here. It is not your fault."

He shook his head sharply. "I am sheikh," he hissed. "Every death is my fault."

I twined my fingers around Ali's and squeezed his hand, offering him what poor strength I had. I did not care how many of the warriors saw it. If we lived, they could snicker all they wanted over their mighty sheikh being comforted by his little sister. If we did die, I was certain that _shame _would be the last thing on our rotting, soon to be re-animated minds. "Do not be ridiculous, Ali. The deaths are the lich's fault, not yours," I said bluntly. Then I took another breath, to steady my quivering nerves. Ali needed my obedience, now, not arguments. He had enough problems to deal with as it was. "What would you have of me, oh sheikh?" I asked formally.

He looked at me. His hand tightened convulsively around mine. "Watch her, my sister," he said roughly, jerking his head towards our captive. "And stay out of the fight." He took a shuddering breath. "I should not even ask this of you, but-"

_But you need all of your real warriors to fight that army - and if the lich gets past you now, we are all dead anyway_, _whether I stay in the temple or no,_ I finished silently. "I understand, Ali," I said quietly, and I watched some of the wretched guilt ease from his face. I let go of his hand. I had to force the next word past my lips. "Go."

He may not have thought himself much of a sheikh, but he looked like one, when he drew his sword and called the warriors of the Green Oasis forward.

The steely slither of dozens of scimitars being drawn at once made me want to draw my own and add my voice to the howls of the warriors. Heat raced through me, all the way from my heart to my fingertips to my cheeks, making me tingle with exhilaration.

We were Bedine. We were not afraid. Well…perhaps we were a little afraid, judging by the cold and hollow feeling that had sunk into the pit of my belly. But that was of no consequence.

We were Bedine. Death was with us always, and never more so than with our tribe. If we were to die, then we would die – but we would make our enemy choke on our blood, first. We would draw our weapons and run screaming into the abyss, as Hammad had said we would. That was our way, and I wanted so badly to join my people in their fight that I had ripped my sword from its sheath and taken a half-step forward before I had even realized that I had moved.

I stopped.

_My sheikh needs me here._

That did not work to cool my raging blood. I tried again.

_My brother needs me here._

That was more persuasive. _Ali, _I thought, and craned my neck to see him. Below, black-robed men closed in on the dead, building a wall of steel around the undead who had begun to trickle from the near end of the bridge. I could not distinguish one man from another, though I could hear the screams as one of my tribesmen went down.

I had heard such screams before, when someone died during an attack that roamed too close to the tents, or was taken back to the tents with a wound that would soon kill them. They were nothing new to me. That did not make me any less angry.

Paralyzed by fear and anger and the rush of blood in my own ears, I thought I felt a coolness against my heated cheek. It took me a moment to realize that it was a breeze.

I turned, confused. The woman was there – just standing there, nearly immobile. The others were all watching her, warily. She did not even seem to be aware of them.

Her pale eyes were fixed on some distant point, and she wore an expression of abstract concentration, as if peering at some intriguing new sight that no one else could see.

I stepped closer, studying her face. Sweat was beading on her forehead, and her face looked strained. _She has the same look that Zebah did, when Zebah-_

I froze, cursing myself for my inattentiveness. The outlander woman had the same look that Zebah did, when Zebah had done magic.

The men with me would not have known it – they had never seen magic done. But I had. I had, and I had not even been paying attention!

Suddenly feeling panicky, I reached for my sword, though I was not certain what I would do. What _did _you do, when confronted with a spellcaster in the midst of a spell?

Then I heard a howl of wind and a strange, almost organic sound, and I instinctively half-turned my head to see what had happened.

The first glance, from the corner of my eye, made no sense, and so I turned my head fully. What I saw made me forget all about swords and duty and spellcasters.

Zombies were falling from the bridge, tumbling head over feet into the canyon below. A gap had been opened in their ranks, as if some giant fist had just punched through them and knocked them straight from their high perch. A rising wind wailed over the canyon, setting my tribesmen's robes aflutter.

I heard a murmur from the warriors with me, and I turned back, open-mouthed.

The strange woman was swaying. Her face was white and streaked with sweat, and she seemed to be struggling to catch her breath, but her eyes had regained their focus. They fell on me, and stilled, acquiring a curious, resigned glint, as if she was waiting to see what I might do.

I was not sure of that myself – but I did know that something had just happened, and I did not know what.

Suddenly furious, I strode forward, and grabbed the outlander's shoulder. She was far taller than I, but the shoulder beneath her armor was almost as thin as Zebah's, and my grip was strong. I saw her wince. "What are you doing?" I demanded, and gestured at the hole in the enemy forces. "Is this some sort of spell?"

The woman, gulping for breath, gave a surprisingly indifferent shrug. Her next words were near-incomprehensible to me, though I was not certain if it was the strangeness of them, or their unexpectedness. "Beats me," she admitted frankly. Swaying, she cocked her head and squinted towards the battle. "Did it do any good?"

I stared at her. I did not understand what she had done. If she had raised that wind, then she had just struck a blow against Kel-Garas – and a very draining one for her, at that. Why would she do that, if she was his ally? Was it all a ruse? Was this part of some greater ploy against us? My hand wrapped around the reassuringly familiar grip of my sword. I did not understand, and I did not like not understanding. Not one bit.

Around us, I saw my tribesmen exchange glances. "Should we send for Ali?" one murmured.

_Ali has enough worries, _I thought in response. _He told me to watch her for him. He trusted me. I must watch her better. _Because I needed the confidence, I drew my sword. "No," I said, to the woman in front of me, because that way it could not be said that I had spoken directly to a man to whom I was not closely related. "We will watch," I added, and scowled up at her, hoping that she would take my words and my bared blade as all the warning she needed. "Your action was useful, but do not do it again, priestess of the jackal god," I told her tightly. "You must know that at the first sign of treachery-"

Her reaction was not at all what I had expected. A slight roll of her eyes expressed a weary amusement. "Yeah, yeah," she sighed. "You'll take my head." Her voice was low, for a woman's, and the wryness in it was reflected in the upwards quirk of her lips. "Tell me something I didn't know."

Then, as I was still grappling with my own confusion, she turned away, slipping her shoulder from beneath my grasp. She threw her words over her shoulder at me. "I'll be lying down over," she said, and pointed at a large, flat rock. "-there. If you need me. Or my head. Whichever." And, without further ado, she did as she had promised, and flopped gracelessly backwards onto the rock amidst a jangle of armor, as if her own legs would no longer support her.

I watched her, for a time, though the sounds of battle below kept dragging my attention back to it. My eyes flickered back and forth as I tried to keep one eye on each of the sights before me – the outlander woman, and the fight my kinsmen were engaged in.

I wondered where that outlander mage was, and whether this attack had anything to do with him. I wondered whether he had succeeded, or whether the lich would kill us all, or whether the lich would kill us all before the mage succeeded, or whether they were allies and would _both _kill us, or whether…

_You are not watching, Nadiya, _I chided myself abruptly. I dragged my eyes back to the woman, who appeared, in defiance of all good sense, to be taking a catnap. I blinked, nonplussed, and looked away to the battle.

There were more black-robed shapes lying on the sand. They were not moving. I willed them to get up, but they were so still.

_Who were they? _ I thought. My eyes blurred, and I felt a whimper rise up before I could clench my jaws against it. _Who have we lost this time? How many more, Kel-Garas? How many?_

But I knew the answer. He wanted all of us. He especially wanted the line of al-Rashid, who had dared to stand against him.

I found myself gulping for air. I wanted to be down there, fighting with my people. I wanted to be away from here, where I would not have to see this. I wanted to be with Ali. I wanted to tear Kel-Garas apart. I wanted to run screaming into the fray, like a true warrior. I wanted to run away, screaming, for the terror I felt at what was happening.

I was so caught up in my own tangled thoughts that I did not even see the winged guardian until the men began to shout.

I spun, wondering why they sounded so alarmed. Then I stopped, and wondered whether _this_ was the spirits' response to all of my insolence.

The guardian's grey hide sparkled like granite. It was hunched and bulky and moved like the door on al-Rashid's tomb had moved, heavily and with the sound of stone grinding on stone.

It was unnatural. Nothing made of stone should have lived. Nothing made of stone should have had eyes to see with, or limbs to move with, or claws to snare with.

The outlander noticed what was amiss almost immediately after I did. From the corner of my eye, I saw her jerk upright, as if she'd just been prodded like a balky camel. "Holy _shit_!" she shouted, and dived from her rock very precipitously. A small puff of dust went up when she hit the ground on the far side.

I had never heard a woman curse before, and it quite robbed me of my presence of mind. Shaundakul was rumored to be very subtle, as were his followers. I decided that Ali must have been mistaken. This woman could not have been a follower of Shaundakul. She was not subtle _at_ _all._

I stared after her, open-mouthed, barely hearing the crunch of claws or the heavy boom of wings behind me.

Then I was reminded of the guardian's claws, when I felt a stir in the air behind me and turned to feel those claws dig into my belly.

I felt a hot, wrenching sensation, and then the world tumbled past in a blur. I caught a glimpse of blue sky, then sand, then sky, then more sand, and, finally, felt a jarring impact from something I could not immediately identify but which was most likely the ground.

I lay in the dirt, stunned. Instinctively, I tried to move. Agony sheared through my midsection, and I dropped back to the ground, hissing in pain. My skin prickled, hot then cold then hot again. I felt dizzy. The sky would not stop turning in circles. I wished that it would stop. It was disconcerting.

There was something hard pressing into my palm. _My sword, _I thought, and struggled again to move, to roll over, to get to my feet, to do _something, _because I was Bedine and there was an enemy attacking me and I had to fight it or I was no Bedine at all.

I clawed at the ground, to pull me onto my side. Grit wormed beneath my fingernails, and another spasm of pain whiplashed through me. I whimpered and sank back down again. _Ah, gods. _This was not only painful – worse, it was _humiliating_.

I closed my eyes against the turning sky and gritted my teeth against the pain, trying to summon up the will to push it away. _Hurts, hurts, hurts._

Then I heard a noise, a soft creak and jingle and a footstep. My pulse leapt, and my eyes snapped open.

The outlander woman's face came into view above me. Her skin was very pale, and she was frowning in what was either irritation or fear. I could not decide which it was. This close, I could see the color of her eyes, which were much the same greyish-green as our oasis on a cloudy day.

_What is she doing? _I stared up at her, confused and more than a little dismayed. "You-" I began.

A hand clapped over my mouth. The woman shot me an icy glare and put a warning finger to her lips, cautioning silence.

Vaguely, I heard the creak of stone wings. I frowned mistrustfully, but, reluctantly, I nodded. I knew the value of being quiet, and there was something in the woman's eyes that gave me a moment's pause. I saw my pain reflected in them, and something like terror, and I did not understand why an agent of Shaundakul should look so agonized over the suffering of a Bedine girl, nor why an ally of Kel-Garas would have anything to fear.

Then I nearly forgot all about such concerns, because the feeling of my blood-soaked robes being peeled from my skin really hurt quite a lot.

I felt hands on my belly, and jerked in pain. _Hurts. _The hand were warm, but beneath them, my skin went unpleasantly cool, as if water was being trickled into the slash across my belly. _Where did she find water? _I wondered, just before the icy tickle turned in a torrent, and something _twisted _deep in my gut, as if someone had grabbed a handful of my innards and squeezed.

I nearly screamed. Then the same thing happened again, and I did let out a wail. My muscles went rigid, which was a mistake, because that only made it hurt more.

Beyond the throb of blood in my ears, and the convulsions of pain, I thought I heard a steady undercurrent of mumbling. "Oh, fuck, sorry, so sorry, I'm new at this, please don't scream I won't do it again," a woman's voice said, low and distressed. Then: "No, wait, sorry, gonna have to do it again after all, hold on, almost there…"

Ice stabbed through me again, and I convulsed. Hammad's curses rose to my mind, all of them, marching past in order from least to worst. I thought I might have said one or two. I was not certain if the pain had been worse, or if this tickling, writhing sensation of cold beneath my skin was worse. It also itched, madly, which did not help.

Then another wave of coolness passed over me, and as it ebbed, I found my mind clearing. I blinked my eyes open, muzzily, and took a breath. It hurt, but not as much as it had before. It still itched, though, and the chill was still squirming unpleasantly beneath my skin.

_She is healing me, _I thought wonderingly. I had heard of such things, though never experienced it. I was not certain that I was glad to know what it felt like, now – it seemed almost more unpleasant than receiving the wound itself. But my wound was knitting, the pain easing, and this woman was responsible, and that made no sense at all. _She is one of Shaundakul's. Why would she do this?_

A shadow moved across me. At first, I thought it was the woman's. Then I realized that it could not be the woman's shadow, because it was falling at completely the wrong angle.

From the corner of my eye, I saw stone.

The priestess was crouched over me, her figure shielding me from the sun. Her eyes were half-blank with that faraway look that I recognized from when Zebah had worked her magic. She was unaware of any danger, but her position would make her the first of us whom the gargoyle would attack.

In trying to heal me, the woman had made a grave tactical error. She had made herself vulnerable.

I did not even think. I acted.

I was not certain what I shouted, only that I did, and that I surged upright, planting my hand on the priestess's shoulder and giving her a hard shove.

She yelped and fell backwards, her eyes going wide. They cleared, returning to the here and now, though what they cleared into was only startled confusion. "What the h-" she started to say.

I could not find the words or the breath to speak. My bloodied middle still hurt, and I clasped one arm across it as I tried to sit up, waving my other hand at the woman in a frantic gesture for her to move, to look, to _see _the thing that was coming for us both with nothing but the scrape of its claws and the bulk of its shadow to warn us.

The woman's brow furrowed in confusion. Then she turned her head, and saw, and leapt to her feet with a shrill cry of alarm.

She was too slow. I could have told her that. She was too slow, and the gargoyle was quicker, and I rolled out of the way of its taloned feet just in time to see its foreclaws hook beneath the scales of her armor and send her spinning.

She hit the ground and slid, groaning. I saw a pair of crouching, stone-grey legs stalk after her, the tips of a pair of wings scoring channels in the sand.

I stared after her. _I have to stop it, _I thought in a half-delirium of ebbing pain. _She healed me._ At least, she had_ tried_ to, though I still felt as if my belly might tear in half if I moved too quickly, and I could not imagine that anyone could do something that poorly on purpose. _I owe her, blood for blood. _It was our way, even if she _was _a strange and profane outlander.

I took a breath and dug my elbow into the earth to shove myself upright, my eyes on the outlander woman as she struggled to rise. My right hand clawed for my sword, though I had no idea what I might do, except that I had to do _something_. An oath was an oath, and a debt was a debt, no matter to whom it was owed.

Then a line of light carved its way across my vision, and I was momentarily blinded.

There was someone shouting in a high, offensively shrill voice, and there was light dancing across the gargoyle's stony hide, but that was irrelevant to me. What was relevant was the fight, and the need to stop the thing before it killed the other woman, and then, most likely, myself.

"_The shameless exploitation of your opponent's weakness is a time-honored tradition, even among the Bedine," _Hammad's voice counseled me silently. _"Do not be fooled. The task is not to win honorably. The task is to win, and for the survivor to decide the points of honor."_

The gargoyle advanced jerkily, its curved beak wide open to bite. I saw its teeth, and its throat, which was far tenderer than the rest of it – and, where there was a tender throat, there were bound to be things like arteries and brains and windpipes and other items that any living creature would surely need if it were to keep on living. I did not know which of those the gargoyle had, but it had to have _something _vital up there, if it was anything like alive.

My scimitar came free of its sheath easily. _"Do stop throwing that thing at me, Nadiya," _I heard the mocking memory of my uncle's voice. _"It is a sword, not a javelin."_

I quite liked the resonant sound the blade made as it spun through the air, and I nearly laughed aloud at the crunch it made as it buried itself in the back of the gargoyle's throat. I should have tried such a maneuver earlier, when I would have had the gratification of being able to surprise Hammad with it. My uncle had been so hard to surprise, and I regretted that I had not been able to do it more often.

_So many regrets, _I thought, and struggled to rise, painfully. _Too many. I am too young for so many lost chances._

When I lifted my eyes again, the outlander woman was staring at me. Her eyes were wide and openly bewildered, and I was happy that at least I had been able to surprise _someone._

With that thought in mind, I smirked at her. "Fortunately for you, priestess, my aim is not as poor as your healing," I heard myself remark, and I thought I heard an echo of my uncle's mischievousness in my own voice.

She stared at me for a moment longer. Then, weakly, she began to laugh. "You know, with a mouth like that, you'll never get anywhere," she retorted in her low, mocking drawl. "Trust me, I've tried it."

I did not know why I laughed back. Perhaps it was relief. Perhaps it was the glimpse I caught of Kel-Garas's army when I turned my head, those masses of undead and stone-heavy wings surging back towards the tomb as if yanked back by the lich's hand on their leash. Perhaps it was the jeering calls of my tribesmen, ululating cries that rose on the now lively wind.

_Perhaps_, I thought, and pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, and from there onto my feet. _Perhaps we might even survive this day, after all._


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Reposted to fix some very silly continuity errors._

14.

_Kel-Garas is dead._

Those words were strange. I kept trying them out in my head, first, to see how I might make them fit.

_Kel-Garas is dead._

It was of no use. In no world that I knew would those words actually make any sense. Our enemy had always been there. I had thought that he would always be there. Much as I hated him, I could not imagine a world without him there. Such a circumstance was beyond my experience.

_Kel-Garas is dead._

I had fulfilled my oath – at least, I thought as much. I had not killed the lich, but I had seen him dead. He had looked so small, just a jumble of bones and cloth on the floor before the altar of Lathander. It seemed so strange, that the ancient enemy who had always loomed so large in our perceptions could be brought down to that.

_Kel-Garas is dead, _I mused. _We are free._

I sat on the broad, flat rock beneath the cedar tree and watched the caravan pull away. I wondered whether standing on my head would help this strange new concept to settle into my brain. It did not seem likely, but perhaps it was worth making the attempt.

I heard the soft crunch of footsteps behind me. I did not turn around. I recognized the rhythm of Ali's stride and the particular rustle of fabric and the sound of breathing which was unique to him, though I could not have said how I recognized it so well. Best to say that he was my brother, and I knew him.

That is to say, I knew Ali as well as I knew this oasis, which meant that I both recognized it as familiar to me and I no longer recognized it at all.

Eventually, he spoke, crisply. He used his sheikh's voice. "So, they are gone," he said. "Good."

I rested my chin on my folded forearms. "They say that the priestess was the one who called the rain," I said quietly. The oasis glittered down below, clean water lapping against the sides of its basin for what seemed like the first time in a lifetime.

I heard my brother drum his fingers against his scabbard. His voice betrayed his unease. His words came in fits and starts, rather than flowing easily, the way they usually did when he was confident of what he was saying. "And who knows what curse she may have left on us in return?" he countered. "Besides, the only ones who say this are the little folk, who are notoriously unreliable-"

I clenched my teeth. "Malik said it, as well," I argued. "He said that she saw her at the edge of the oasis. She spoke to a man who was not there, and then the rain came."

"Malik was delirious with fever."

"Not so delirious, after she gave him her medicines."

My brother's voice went sharp. "_Nadiya,_" he said. "Enough. You have made enough of a spectacle of yourself, speaking so loudly on that woman's behalf-"

My shoulders stiffened and my jaw clenched. I would have liked it if my voice and posture did not betray my anger, and would allow me to be as guarded as Hammad, but they never seemed to cooperate in that regard. "_That woman,_" I spat, "-has a name. It is Rebecca. And she healed me."

"She beguiled you."

"She killed Kel-Garas."

"No. The mage did that."

_The mage. _That was another thing which I could not fit into my head. I could have stood on my head and jumped up and down, or turned somersaults, and still the concept would not have fit. If I had the way of writing, I could have written the idea on parchment, folded it up, sawed off the top of my head, and dropped the words directly into my brain, and _still _they would have made no sense.

I had not known what I had expected a mage to look like, but it had not been that. The one who had killed Kel-Garas had been large, and strange, and fey, and bad-tempered, and very, very loud.

Oddest of all, he had not even been _human_.

His skin had had a greenish tint, which I would have taken for a sign of illness had he not been so energetic and so obviously hale, and his face had had the fierce and brutish cast of a hungry hyena. Ali had called him _half-orc, _which helped nothing, because no one would explain to me just what an _orc_ was, nor what it meant to be half of one.

I had not caught his name. That was probably for the best. I was not certain what to make of such a creature, or man, or whatever it was that this mage had been, and I could certainly not have spoken to him directly to find out. He was male and unrelated to me. Worse yet, he was an outlander, and a mage. Not even Ali could have protected me from censure, had I dared to speak with that one directly. I was already in enough trouble for having defended the priestess. It did not matter what she had done, only that she followed a god whom the stories said would betray us. I should have thought the same way, but…

…_but the others did not see the look in her eyes. They did not speak with her. She bore no love for us, but neither did she find any joy in our suffering._

My long silence seemed to prod my brother into speaking again. "Little sister," he sighed, and from the corner of my eye I saw him crouch down beside me. "You are young, and you have never been outside our oasis. You do not know the perils that exist beyond our canyon."

I did not know much of the world beyond our home, that was true – but I knew that Kel-Garas was dead and we had water again, and I knew that it was all the doing of the outlanders.

I turned my head to look at Ali sideways. "You do not like that it was an outlander who…killed the lich," I said abruptly. I would have said _saved us, _but I could not get the words out. Even the thought was, in its way, humiliating. Kel-Garas had been our enemy to face, not theirs, and to know that a pair of soft outlanders had succeeded where we had failed was like having a splinter embedded beneath one of my nails – stinging, aggravating, and impossible to either remedy or ignore.

It was no wonder that Ali was so bitter. "It is good that they have gone, and asked for no more than water," he muttered. His dark eyes stared after the caravan, brooding. "Had they known enough to ask us to make good on our true debt to them, I do not know how we would have repaid it."

I gnawed on my lip, briefly. "Blood for blood," I murmured.

Ali glanced at me, briefly. "Just so," he said. Then he rose. "But enough of our tribe's blood has been shed as of late," he added briskly. "For now, we are safe – and if the priestess of the jackal-headed one calls in her due, well, we will worry about that particular problem when we come to it."

I bit my lip so hard that I tasted copper, but I said nothing. Ali knew that the outlander woman had been evil. I knew that she was not. I could argue until I was blue in the face, and still I was certain that I would not be able to change his mind, nor he mine.

I sighed, and rose to my feet as well. "You are truly the blood of al-Rashid," I said sourly, not looking my brother's way.

His voice was mildly inquisitive. "Oh?"

I scowled. "You are as stubborn as a goat."

Ali's laughter rose up like a flock of birds startled from a bush. "As are you, my sister," he retorted, and held out his hand. "Come," he said then. "Walk with me a while. I do not like to leave you alone out here, at least until the outlanders are long gone."

I did not like his implication that I was incapable of defending myself, but Ali was smiling again, the shadows lifting from his eyes, and I did not want to spoil it. I took his hand and allowed him to help me down from my perch. "How is Malik?" I asked my eldest brother.

He laughed wryly. "Complaining."

"Oh? Then he must be feeling better."

"What makes you say that?"

"He always groused when I kicked him in the shins, but he said nothing at all when I once bloodied his nose. From this I must conclude that he only complains when it does not truly hurt."

Ali blinked. "You once-"

"Yes. Do not give me that look, Ali. He deserved it." I paused. "But please do not tell our mother," I added. "It was years ago, but if she finds out, she will be as angry as if I had done it yesterday."

"That much is true," Ali murmured dryly. "The women of our family are well-known for their ability to hold a grudge."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "What is that supposed to mean?" I asked suspiciously.

My brother gave me a limpid smile. "Nothing at all, little sister," he replied smoothly.

I hesitated. Then, sighing, I decided to ignore his teasing, and I took his arm instead, hugging it to my side as we walked. He was my brother again, for now, and no more than my brother. That much was worth enduring a little gentle needling.

For the first time in months, the oasis smelled green again. I had spent so long with nothing but dust and the stink of death in my nostrils that even the smell of growing things was new to me, and did not seem to fit into the world as I had come to know it.

The jasmine was blooming. It smelled like our mother's perfume, to me. Quite suddenly, I missed her. Guiltily, I wondered how she was faring. She could not know that we were well, and the lich was dead. She must have been worried.

_I had to keep my oath, _I thought defensively. _There is nothing I can do but wait to apologize to her and accept whatever punishment she deems appropriate, now. _Then, firmly, I pushed the thought out of my head. What would happen would happen, and I could do nothing about it right now.

Ali's hand tightened around mine as we drew to the edge of the oasis. We came to a halt and looked down at it. Ribbons of sunlight rippled by, carried past us on the slow flow of the water towards the creek. From there, the creek entered the wadi, and from that narrow artery, all of the other waterways in this area would fill. Travelers would return to our region of the desert. So, no doubt, would the raiding parties. At least the lack of water had granted us some reprieve from that, for even the hardiest of warriors needed water if they wished to fight.

_They will be back soon enough, _I thought. _And we are so few, now. _Dozens had died in the lich's last, desperate attack. More would no doubt die during this coming night.

I heard a soft sigh escape my brother's lips. "So few left," he murmured, echoing my own thoughts. Then he squared his shoulders. "They will have to do, though," he added, and turned to me. "When the few scouts we have are healed enough to travel, I will send them across the desert to El Ma'ra," he told me. "They will go to bring the women and children back." His face hardened. "And you will go with them, and you will return to our mother's tent, and there will be no more talk of swordplay from you until all of this is settled. Do you understand me?"

I stared at him. Was that fear, chilling my blood, or was it something else? I did not know, though I wished that I did. "Ali-"

He made a quick negating gesture with his hand, slashing it through the air as if it were a blade. "No, Nadiya," he said. "I am not your brother in this. I must be your sheikh, and you…" He trailed off, and grimaced. "You have not heard what the men have been saying," he said in a low voice.

I knew the heat which cut through the cold dread in my belly and made my cheeks flush. _That _was an emotion I recognized. It was embarrassment. "I have heard enough of it," I mumbled.

"Not all of it." He looked at me, and his eyes softened in sympathy. "Nadiya-" he began helplessly, and then shook his head, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Hammad chose to indulge you, though it was a risk to him if anyone discovered that he had put steel in the hands of a woman. And I-"

I folded my arms across my chest and frowned at him. "Make them accept it," I hissed, my eyes darting to see that no one was near to hear this. "You are sheikh."

He cocked his head at me, a grim and sad censure written into the lines of his face. "I am sheikh of a scant handful of warriors," he corrected me, "-and the blood of al-Rashid ceased to speak so strongly for me as soon as the phaerimm's power faded. And now, with the lich dead-" He let the rest of his words fall unspoken, like rain, and I thought I heard the rest of it in the silence between us.

_Your position is weak, and you do not have enough men to stop any number of them from breaking away – or taking the sheikhdom from you by force, _I concluded_._ I may not have been a man, but now that it had been brought to my attention, it was not hard to see how the death of the lich would sway the balance of power among them. Even Hammad had not been a very strong sheikh, for he had been the unsteady younger brother who had passed most of his youth in the outer desert and beyond, and that made many suspicious of him. But Hammad had been the blood of al-Rashid, no matter his position within the family, and while the power of the phaerimm endured, that had been enough.

Ali, on the other hand, was admired, but he was young, and he ruled over a near-broken tribe, and the power that had kept al-Rashid's line in the sheikhdom was no longer needed to keep us safe.

_And he cannot even control his own sister, who defies all that is good and proper and insists on taking up the sword_, I thought, quavering. I had never thought of it that way before. Now that I had, I clutched the hilt of my sword, desperately, and wondered if this was the last I would ever see of it.

_No, _I thought weakly, but I knew it for the forlorn cry of a child who would deny the inevitable, even as the inevitable happened. The sheikh must be the strongest of us, the first among equals. What would happen to him if he was perceived to be weak? Such things happened in the other tribes, but they had never happened here. Al-Rashid's blood had prevented it.

Now, though, al-Rashid's blood meant much less than it had, and I felt as if I was standing on a dune just as the bedrock beneath it had begun to gape open. I swallowed hard, because my throat seemed to want to close up and would not let me speak. "Will they leave?" I croaked.

His eyes went shuttered and dark. "That is no business of yours, Nadiya," he said shortly. Then he shook his head, sharply. "And it does not matter. Not now. They will do nothing immediately. As I have few hale men, so do they. We must rebuild, and heal, and regain our strength." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Besides, they are waiting for the return of their women and children, which will take some months. I have time to win allies. And they will do nothing to you if I send you away, or to jeopardize the return of their wives and kin."

A startling little light dawned in my head. "Which scouts will you be sending?" I asked slowly.

Ali slanted me an unreadable look. "Those whom I can most afford to be without," he said blandly. He laid a hand on my shoulder. "They will not harm you, little sister," he reassured me darkly. "While they are apart from others of like mind, and they have not seen for themselves that their women are safe, they will make no move either way." He essayed a weak smile. "We have a little time, yet, before we must worry of such things."

_We, _I thought. _He said 'we'. _Reluctantly, I took my hand away from my sword. Perhaps I could not fight – not openly, certainly. But perhaps I could still help my eldest brother, who was not nearly as much of a goat as my other brothers, and who was more worthy of the sheikhdom than any of those fools who thought that the gods would strike us down because a woman had dared to lift a sword. Ali's temper was mild and not naturally suited to command, that was true, but at least he knew how to _think._

Taking a breath, I touched my fingers to my forehead, and then to my lips and my heart, and bowed from the waist. "What would you have of me?" I asked simply.

Ali folded his arms over his chest. He did not bow. A sheikh never did, though he did give me a solemn nod of acknowledgement, and I thought I saw the old warmth I had always known, there in his liquid dark eyes. Then he extended his hand. "Give me your sword, Nadiya," he said gently. "Please, do not make me ask this of you again."

Tears burned behind my eyes and nose. I tried to blink them away. _The blood of al-Rashid does not cry like a little girl, _I told myself sharply. _A warrior does not blubber when given an order, no matter what it is._

Still, the click of my belt unlatching sounded like the boom of a tomb door, and the feel of my scabbard leaving my hands was like having a piece of me wrenched away.

I ground my teeth and pulled my eyes away from the sight of my sword lying across Ali's palms. _There are other ways to fight, _I thought grimly. _And I will win it back, when this is done. I will. _"By your leave, my sheikh," I said hoarsely, and, with a last salute, I turned on my heel and left before my brother could see me start to cry.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: At last, we're here - the end of established plot and the beginning of original territory. *cracks knuckles* Ahh. I've been waiting for this. All of that background exposition was murder._

_In other news, there's a picture of Nadiya up at my profile, for anyone who wants to get an idea of what our heroine really looks like. Hop on over and take a gander. I'll make sure she doesn't behead you for peeking._

15.

It was not a matter of one month, but of well over two before the scouts were quite healed, and the men sent out to inspect the waterways had pronounced them replenished enough for us to set out.

We left at first light the day after the decision had finally been made. I was relieved. I missed our mother and Zebah. On the other hand, I would _not _miss being obliged to do the work of ten women, because much of the cooking and washing had been left to me. Ali had not objected – at least, he had said, the work had kept me from brooding. I had glared at him, but said nothing. What could I say? For that matter, what could I do? Stewing sandgrass and rock-lizards was dull, and a poor substitute for swordplay, but he was right. It was better than doing nothing.

We left at first light. The scouts went first, swallowed by the steep walls of the wadi. I went after, a small shadow at their heels.

There were carvings on the walls of the wadi, their edges limned in the light of the rising sun.

I thought I saw camels, striding across the red-and-yellow stone on their long legs, with their haughty heads upraised. All of them looked like they wanted to spit, or perhaps to kick, but that was in the nature of camels, and thus entirely true-to-life.

There were robed figures chiseled into the walls of the wadi, too. They were near as large as I was, though not as large as real men would be. Some walked with the camels, and some stood at the tail of the caravan, peering behind them, towards the mouth of the wadi. I did not know what they were looking at. Perhaps they were watching the path behind them, back towards the other tribes whose ways they had cast aside for their duty. Perhaps they were being followed. Perhaps they were wondering whether to collect the camel dung for their fires. The carvings did not make it very clear.

Elsewhere, carved men fought carved corpses, and a spidery, hunched figure cowered before a robed man, who held a scimitar in one hand and a sphere in the other. Those must have been Kel-Garas and al-Rashid. I tried to take a closer look, to see if I could make out any faces, but the sand and wind had long since worn them away and smoothed both faces to blankness.

The carvings were old. They had been here for a thousand years or more before my birth, and they would still be here a thousand years after my death, endlessly retelling the story of my people to any who saw them. That thought was strangely comforting. We would all die, eventually, but at least we would not be forgotten – not so long as these carvings remained.

I brushed my fingertips against the carvings as I passed, wondering how many of my people had done just as I was doing. I thought that Hammad must have touched them, too, on the day he first left. That, too, was a comforting thought, and I looked over my shoulder to keep the carvings in sight until a bend in the wadi swept them from view.

Eventually, the wadi ended, and it opened up onto the edge of forever – or so it seemed to me.

The expanse of the desert stretched from here to the horizon, which was slightly curved and vanished into blue sky on the left, blue sky on the right, and the red-gold blush of the fading sunrise straight ahead. Wisps of cloud traced their way across the dome of the sky, which I thought much broader and deeper than the sky in my oasis.

Flat and riddled with spiderweb cracks, the land stretched away beneath that endless sky, yellow as a flame and dotted with sparse growths of brush and cacti. Here and there, a dune rose, or the ground split into a jagged outcropping, and a tree stood atop it, outlined against the blue, blue sky, all grasping roots and crooked branches and sun-bleached bark.

The sight of it stole my breath. _Beautiful, _I thought, and wondered whether it was possible for something to be so lovely that it might break your heart.

It was only when I felt the prod of a finger against my shoulder that I realized that I had stopped in my tracks. "If you will not walk, I will not carry you, little D'Tarig," my brother, Malik, told me. He made a face, prodding at my shoulder again. His expression turned thoughtful. "I will certainly not be able to carry you very far. It is unnatural for a woman to have such muscles in her arms, do you know that?" He smirked. "How much do you weigh, little D'Tarig? As much as one camel, or two?"

I flushed, and crossed my arms over my chest self-consciously. "I do not know," I retorted angrily. "How well can you fight, Malik? As well as a blind camel, or a lame one?"

He blinked. "Has no one ever told you that women should speak only gently to their loved ones, and hold the harsh side of their tongues for those who deserve it?" he asked bemusedly.

I smiled at him unpleasantly. "Yes."

"Oh." Malik seemed a little taken aback. "Well, I am glad that you agree." Then he blinked again. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Wait. Did you just-"

"Just what?" I asked innocently. Then, before he could reply, I lifted my hand to point at a line of distant shapes on the horizon. They thrust up from the sand like fingers, so tall that a few threads of cloud had wound themselves around the towers' peaks. "What are those?"

My brother frowned in perplexity and turned to look. "The Scimitar Spires," he answered. "What, have you never seen them?"

I gave him a long, incredulous look. "Of course I have not. I have never been outside the oasis."

He blinked once again, like a lizard which had lain too long under a rock and was too sluggish to do anything but blink in the sudden sunlight when you lifted the rock and found it there. I was beginning to find this habit of his very annoying. I was tempted to ask if he had gotten a grain of sand caught in his eye. "Oh," he said. "That is right. You would not have been, would you? You are a woman."

I found myself wishing that Ali had come along. At least he would not have said anything quite so stupid as that. Also, for some reason, I did not appreciate the surprise with which Malik greeted the news of my femininity. Were I male, I would have been allowed to hold a sword openly and without censure. Because I was not, I could not, and I found it rather offensive that Malik could not at least be moved to acknowledge my gender when it was my gender which had caused so much trouble in the first place.

Besides, I would have appreciated it if someone had noticed that, while I may have been shorter and dumpier and considerably less lovely than either Zebah or our mother, I was still as much a female as they were. I even had breasts. Two of them, in fact. I did not see how anyone could miss them. _I_ certainly could not. They were what made it so hard for me to see my own feet.

I sighed. "You are a goat, Malik," I announced resignedly. "I hope you know that." Then, abruptly, I pointed at another hulk of stone. They were a line of ragged, unimaginably tall cliffs – _mountains, _I thought, _those must be mountains _– just barely visible on the far horizon. They were blue-grey, just a few shades darker than the sky, and hazy as a mirage. "What about those? What are they? Are they real?"

Malik looked to where I was pointing. He made a sign of warding. "The Desertsmouth Mountains," he said. "They say that the outlands lie beyond them."

I gnawed on my lower lip, briefly. "Do you believe that?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I do not know," he admitted. "It is said that Hammad once crossed those mountains, but I think many tales grow in the telling. I cannot believe he travelled so far. I do not even think such a place exists, in truth. Men have been known to see many strange things which do not exist, when they have been long enough without water."

I looked at him sharply. "That almost sounded intelligent," I marvelled. "Are you feeling well, Malik?"

He grimaced at me sourly. "When did you become such a viper, little sister?"

I scowled at him, wishing that I could think of a retort for that. Unfortunately, my retorts seemed to have dried up, and all I could think of doing was kicking him in the shin. That, however, would only prove that I was as ill-tempered and ill-behaved as everyone accused me of being, so I tried to think of something else to talk about instead. "So what of the caravans?" I asked, switching subjects abruptly. "If there are no outlands, where do these so-called outlanders and their caravans come from?"

Malik spread his hands in a helpless shrug. "The desert is vast," he said. "There are said to be cities to the east and west, and there are mountains to the north of which we know next to nothing. Perhaps that is where the caravans come from."

That was possible. At least, I thought that it was. I had heard stories of the outlands, as had we all, but some of the things I had heard had seemed so, well, _outlandish _that I found it hard to believe they were true. Perhaps Malik was right. Then again, that seemed unlikely, and Hammad _had_ said that he had seen those lands. My uncle had lied about many things, but only when it suited him, and I did not see what advantage there was to the spreading of such scandalous stories. It had only marked him as strange and potentially untrustworthy.

I looked around. The desert was very large, out here, and I felt very small. I could not imagine that there could be more to the world than this. This was already too much.

To take my mind off of such thoughts, I sighted on a strange pile of spoor, and pointed. "And that?" I asked my brother. "What creature left that?"

He glanced downwards. "Sandcat," he said. "We must be in its territory. They usually cover their leavings better, unless they want to mark their range." He smirked at me and laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Never fear, my sister. You would be a plump little morsel for it, I am sure, but I will not let it eat you."

"Oh?" I returned brightly. "Will you let it eat you first so that it dies from indigestion? Thank you, Malik! I think I would like that."

My brother scowled down at me. "I am constantly amazed that our mother did not bury you up to the neck and leave you to the vultures the day you were born," he said darkly. "You are absolutely unholy."

"What a strange coincidence. I have often thought the same thing about you," I replied blandly. I focused on his hand, and on the sword he carried, painfully aware of the lightness at my own hip. I pointed at it imperiously. "That is not your normal sword. Where did you get that?"

He answered reluctantly. "Ali gave it to me."

I leaned closer. The hilt was cross-tied in camel's leather that might once have been dyed red, but was now so faded that it was more pinkish-grey than anything else. The leather was cracked, too, and the steel hilt was tarnished. There was a polished stone set in the pommel, striations of green and orange and red rippling all through it. I did not know what it was called, but I recognized the sword well enough.

The last time I had seen this sword, Ali had been wearing it. Before_ that_, al-Rashid had been clutching it in his shriveled hands. I straightened. "This is our ancestor's sword," I said suspiciously. "I thought it was back with him. Where did you get it?"

"Why must you badger me with so many questions?"

"Because I am curious. Ali must have given you the sword. Why did he do that?"

"Because it is_ our_ ancestor's sword! Why should I not carry it?"

I frowned. "Why not Ali?" I argued. "He is the eldest, and the sheikh."

Malik lifted an eyebrow, assuming a sage expression. "The danger of the lich is gone, but there are plenty of hazards still to be found in the desert. We must defend you women against them."

I ignored Malik's sage expression and gave him a scowl of my own. "Fayid and Afram and all of the others are already protecting the women. Besides - much good such protection may do us, if we return to an oasis full of corpses."

Malik shrugged. "We will not," he said confidently. "None would dare to attack the tribe that ended the dread lich, Kel-Garas."

_We did nothing to end Kel-Garas, _I thought bleakly. _The outlanders did that for us. _But even I knew better than to say such things out loud, where they would sow the seeds of doubt and shame, so I lifted my finger and pointed again. "What is that, then?" I asked suddenly.

Malik heaved a long-suffering sigh. "It is a cactus, oh unholy one."

I rolled my eyes. "I know it is a cactus," I said with exaggerated impatience. "But what _kind _of a cactus? I have never seen its like before."

"I do not know. Does it matter?"

"Oh, never mind. You are hopelessly incurious." I pointed at the silhouette of a narrow spire of stone with a larger stone on top of it, balanced there like a camel standing on a needle. "What about that?"

"A zeugen."

"Oh. I have heard of those. How marvelous. I wonder how it stays up. Hmm. And that?"

"A red viper's skin, I think. Are you done with your questions, little D'Tarig? May I have a moment's peace, now, or are you determined to torment me?"

"It is only torment if answering such simple questions taxes your brain. It does not, does it? No? Good. Now, what is that?"

"A dead antelope."

"Oh. Do you think the sandcat killed it?"

"I do not know," Malik said sourly. "You might linger here and find out when it returns."

"That would be a long, dull wait, and then I would have to tell the sandcat where to find you so that it could eat you, instead. Oh…what is that?"

"A skull. With a cactus growing in it."

"How odd. I wonder what it would be like, to be dead and have a cactus growing through my head. Would it tickle, do you think, or would it just sting? Oh, well. I suppose I would not notice either way, would I?" I pointed elsewhere. "And that?"

Malik rubbed his forehead as if he was starting to develop a headache. "A dead tree," he said in a strained voice.

"I see." Doggedly, I scanned the sand until I found another curiosity. I pointed to it. "And that?"

And so we passed the day very agreeably in that manner. I learned many things, including the fact that the wider desert includes a great many corpses and not very many living creatures. I had known this before, but it was another thing to see it, and to feel that vast emptiness that was so unlike the bustle and the green, living shelter of our little oasis.

I also learned that I had at my disposal the power to drive Malik absolutely mad with annoyance by mercilessly peppering him with questions. That quite made up for all of those years that he had pestered _me_ with insults, and I made a point of thinking up as many questions as I possibly could while we walked. I only wished that I had discovered this trick earlier. It would have saved me a great deal of frustration.

Because all of our camels were long dead, we made the trip on our own feet, carrying our packs and baskets on our shoulders. I shouldered my burden silently and soldiered forward at a slow and steady pace, the same as the men did. As a woman, I may not have been expected to fight, but I was expected to work just as hard as any man, if not harder – which I found rather unfair, to be truthful, though I supposed that if worst came to worst I was not entirely unarmed. I could always hit my attackers with a tent pole.

As I walked, I watched the men. They were two, plus Malik. Those were all of the hale bodies which Ali could spare, and Ali had feared that a larger number would attract too much attention in any case.

Ahead of me marched Marzouk, who was the son of a friend of my father's and with whom I had played before we were too old, and girls and boys could no longer play childish games together. He looked ahead intently, his hand never far from his sword, and I wondered if _he _was one of those who would like to take the sheikhdom from Ali.

It was a foreign thought, this one. Betrayal was common among the other tribes, or so it was said, but we had always had our duty, and the line of al-Rashid had been sacrosanct as long as that duty called. _Our_ sheikhdom did not get passed around among the men like a smoking pipe.

Now, though, something had changed, and I had found myself regarding even Malik with suspicion over the past two months or more. Malik was dull-witted and had always liked to tease me until I cried, but I could not imagine that he would betray our eldest brother. If nothing else, Malik knew who was the better warrior, and would not risk a death by his own brother's blade. Surely he would not be so foolish as to challenge Ali, as well as so dishonorable.

Such thoughts did not even bear thinking, but I found that my mind dwelled on them anyway, though the rest of me tried desperately to stifle those vile speculations.

Another man, Azhar, who was wiry and grizzled and whom I knew had always been one of the most strident voices in any argument against Hammad, turned to scan the horizon. His eyes passed over me, briefly, and paused to meet my own for an instant before he looked politely away again. I wondered if he, too, was one of those who would work against my brother. I frowned, and I did not meet his eyes.

When the midday sun began to rise, the three men dug shallow shelters into the side of a dune, and erected windaways in front of them. Because I was not asked to help, I watched as they weighted the feet of the tent poles and brushed sand across the tops of the camel's skin, to hide our shelters from view.

Malik pulled me into one without a word. It was big enough for three people, perhaps, but it would not have done for me to have been huddled so close to any man but my brother. We took our supplies with us, and stowed them towards the back of the shelter, where our bodies would shield them.

The heat grew stifling, and we sat quietly for a while, drinking a little water when we needed to and saying nothing.

Eventually, though, I grew bored. "Malik? How much farther is it to El Ma'ra?" I asked thoughtfully.

Malik groaned. "You are not going to ask me more questions, are you?"

"Of course not," I said stoutly. "I am going to ask you _many _more questions." I poked my brother's shoulder. "Why do you dig shelters like this? Are they cooler than tents? Or are they just well-hidden? How do you find shelter when there is no dune to dig into? Do you put up a tent then? Does that not attract enemies?" I inquired with interest. I paused for breath before going on. "Will anyone see us here? Will you fight them? Can I watch?"

My brother drew his head scarf across his face and leaned back. "I am going to sleep," he announced sulkily. "If you would ask your questions, ask them of the wind and sky, and kindly leave me be."

I frowned at him. "Should you not stay awake?" I asked critically. "There may be enemies about."

"_You_ may do whatever you wish. _I_ will be napping."

Malik did not respond to any of my other questions, and his eyes remained stubbornly closed. Briefly, I considered elbowing him in the ribs, for I was sure that he was only faking sleep. Eventually, though, I gave up and let him be. Heaving a sigh, I settled in for the long wait 'till dusk.

I passed the time by speculating on what would be most likely to attack us. Lizard-men were not likely, because they did not usually roam during the day. D'Tarig might be about, though, and they were such honorless dogs that they often used arrows to begin their attacks and slow down our warriors as they tried to bring their steel to bear. Our own tent at home had once ended up with a tear through the hides and a shattered milk jug, thanks to a stray D'Tarig bolt. I had even kept it, for a time, until I had lost it while playing down by the water one day. Further D'Tarig raiders had never provided me with a replacement.

_Stingers might come, too, _I thought, and I peered hopefully at the sand. It was said that there would appear funnels in the sand as the scorpion-men burrowed upwards to attack. I did not see any, but perhaps it would be best if I looked carefully, so that I would be prepared when they did come out.

Malik began to snore. I shifted slightly in our little shelter and eyed his sword, wondering if I might have the time to snatch it out of his scabbard if anything did attack. We were packed rather too close together for me to reach it now, but I was sure that if I ducked out of the shelter, I would then be able to reach back in and grab my brother's sword before he was entirely awake.

Then I gave myself a mental slap. _Ali said that I was not to have a sword, _I reminded myself sternly. _I must behave, or they will take my disobedience as further reason to doubt him._

Still…I had only promised that I would not _carry _a sword. Ali had said nothing about using someone _else's _sword, had he? Technically, if I borrowed Malik's sword to kill something with, I would not be carrying anything, merely using it for a brief period. I would give it back immediately afterwards, of course. And I was certain that no one would fault me for defending myself against murder or worse. At least, I hoped not. I would not have liked to stand and twiddle my thumbs until one of the men to came and stopped the stingers from trying to chop me in half.

The sun continued in its slow descent until, finally, it began to spread its crimson fingers over the horizon. The air cooled at last, and we scrambled out of our shelters, hoisted our burdens, and travelled on until it had grown too dark to see. At my pestering, Malik explained that lighting torches would only provide beacons for any hostile creatures, and that it was far too easy to set foot in an ambush if one travelled at night. I absorbed this, and decided that it was, despite having come from Malik, a very logical decision.

Because I was not used to so much walking, I was asleep almost as soon as I had rolled myself in my blankets. There was one advantage, at least, to being female. I was not asked to take a turn at watch, though I did wake near dawn and stare off into the night, wondering if one of the shapes I saw in the gloom might be a stinger, or a D'Tarig, or an outlander, or our mother come to greet us.

The next day was more of the same, as was the next, and the next, and the next, and so on for nearly two tendays. Our progress was halting and turtle-like. Even so, it was tiring, and the heat was far worse than it had ever been in our little wadi.

Nor had I ever done so much walking in my life. Each day, I concentrated on putting one foot in front of another, though my legs ached all the way from my hips downward. I was used to swinging a sword, but that was with my arms. My legs, obviously, had not been exercised so strenuously by my swordwork. With movement, though, the ache eased, and I pressed on behind the men, who courteously restrained their longer strides to accommodate my much shorter legs. I hoped that I was not slowing our progress, though I was hard-pressed to see how it could get any slower.

Once, we saw a group of Bedine men, clustered beneath an awning of their own. They rested beneath it, skins or pipes in their hands, and watched us, speaking quietly among themselves. They made no move for their weapons, though neither did they invite us to share their shade. Most likely, they recognized the marks of the Oasis of the Green Palm painted on my brethren's cheeks, a precaution our scouts always took when leaving our home. I had heard that it was often enough to discourage interference from members of the other tribes, and that did seem to be the case. At the very least, the men took great care to ignore us, so much so that it was almost ostentatious - though I almost wished that they had not done so. I had never met anyone from another tribe. I was curious to know just how different they truly were from us. Now, I expected, I might never find out.

Still, Malik hovered very near me for all the time that the strange men were in sight, and for much of the trip afterwards. I could have told him that he was wasting his time. In the stories I had always heard, it was always a woman with a face and figure like Zebah's who was stolen by some love-struck warrior from an enemy tribe.

I did not have a face like Zebah's, much less her figure. I did not fit into those stories. Were any of those men to behold me, they would be far less likely to risk the swords of my kinsmen to take me as their own and far more likely to ask what in the world my kinsmen were doing with a D'Tarig woman in their possession.

I should have been relieved. Therefore, I did not entirely understand why I felt a little prickle of disappointment. I did not actually _want _to be kidnapped and forced to marry some uncivil brute from another tribe, of course. I just wished that I might have the option. As it was, it was painfully obvious that no man in his right mind would ever be willing to spill a little blood on my behalf. I would not even expect him to open an artery or lose a limb. Just a nosebleed would have been enough. A small one. Just to show that he cared.

_The heat must be addling my wits, _I thought sourly, and hitched my packs higher on my shoulders. That, or the endless sky, which made me feel as if I might float up into it on the very next step, if I was not very careful to keep my feet firmly on the ground. It was a disturbing feeling, and I kept my eyes to the ground and the horizon rather than the sky. It was wiser to do so, anyway. If danger came, it would most likely come from below or beside, not above.

Near the end of the second tenday, a thin finger of stone appeared from the sky's haze. I did not know why I had not seen it, except that it was so needle-thin that the sky had quite swallowed it until we were very close.

I did not have to point and ask what that one was. "El Ma'ra," Malik murmured, squinting up at the towering sandstone spire. "The Tall One."

I followed his gaze. "The oasis lies beneath it, Ali said," I ventured.

"Yes. It is not far, now." The idea seemed to put a fresh spring in his step, which was good. He had been looking a little grey-faced and tired, despite having taken all the rest he could. I did not think that he was entirely over his fever, which he had caught from the claws of a hungry zombie and the outlander woman had cured him of with her potions. Not that he would ever admit it, of course, especially since it had been so long and he should have been fully recovered by now.

Malik, I decided, was a goat. That may have been why I took one of his bladders of water from his shoulders and slung it over my own the next time he stumbled. Then I walked ahead briskly before he had gathered his scanty wits together enough to object.

We walked along in watchful silence. I thought of the stories, and stared up at El Ma'ra. It was said that a powerful place-spirit inhabited the spire - or perhaps he _was _the spire. "They say that El Ma'ra will give far-seeing to any Bedine who offers him their water," I recalled, speaking over my shoulder to my brother. "Is that true?"

Malik shrugged. "I do not know," he confessed. "I have never tried. I would imagine that you could see very far if you climbed to the top of the spire, though."

"I thought he might throw you off, if you tried to reach his head. _I _would not like strange men to be climbing on top of me all of the time, I know that." I caught a strange look from Malik, right before he went into a fit of what sounded suspiciously like laughter. I glared at him suspiciously. "What?" I demanded hotly. "What is so funny?"

Malik coughed. His face was very red. "N-nothing, little sister," he gasped. "Only…some dust. In my lungs. I expect." He made a vague gesture. "Besides. I am sure that El Ma'ra would not t-throw a true Bedine off – especially a woman." He spluttered again, and paused to clear his throat before continuing. "At least, he will not as long as he does not dislike you."

I bit my lip. I was not certain if the spirit of El Ma'ra would like me. I was not a very good Bedine, all told. Perhaps, if I ever needed his help, I would be wise to bring a whole jug of water as an offering – or perhaps a few drops of blood. Everyone knew that the only thing the spirits liked better than water was blood.

Feeling guilty for some reason I could not quite define, I made a sign of warding and looked away from El Ma'ra. I had paid my debt to the spirits. I did not want to incur another.

We walked and rested for another noontime before going on. Excitement rose in me. I would see our mother again, soon. I would see Zebah.

I had so missed my sister. I only hoped that she had not gotten into too much trouble while I was not there to watch her.

Up ahead, Marzouk stopped. He let out a warning whistle, two rising notes one after the other. _Stay, _I thought this one meant, though, in all honesty, I could only guess. No one had ever taught me what the warriors' signals meant.

We drew level with him. He was kneeling in the sand, a narrow spit of wood at his feet.

Marzouk lifted the thing. It was long and narrow, a shaft of wood topped with a long, sharp point of steel. "A laertis spear," he mused aloud. "Bloodied." He ran a finger along the metal, and touched his finger to his tongue. He spat, over his shoulder. "The blood is not its own," he announced grimly.

In my fascination, I forgot my manners entirely. "What is it, then?" I asked.

He cast me a glance over his shoulder, as blank and bleak as a stone wall. "Human," he said.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Short, but I could find no better point to cut it off. I hate it when that happens._

16.

Like hounds, we followed the trail of blood.

Dead laertis – lizard-men, their scaly hands stiffened in death and grasping at the empty air – lay in the sand. They were half-covered in drifts, crusts of old, rust-red blood clinging to the edges of the cuts in their throats or their bellies.

The cuts were not straight. They curved. _Scimitars, _I thought, my blood going cold despite the heat of the day. _These marks were made by scimitars._

I did not know what to think, or to do. I followed behind the men, an unsure and unquiet shadow.

El Ma'ra rose above us, gaunt and silent. The spire was made of sandstone, striped reddish-orange and yellow for all of its length. I could not tell if it had been made by men or formed by the wind and the sand, but I could not see how men could have made it. It loomed too sharply and strangely for that.

I stumbled nearer to Malik. _Nerves, _I thought, and tried to still my trembling legs. I could not show that I was afraid. I was Bedine. We did not fear any enemy, living or dead. "Where is the oasis?" I asked him in a murmur.

He spared me a glance. "Close," he said tightly.

I had hoped that he would not say that. "Do you think-" I began hesitantly.

He cut me off sharply. "I do not think," he said. He gestured ahead with his scimitar. The setting sun turned the edge of al-Rashid's blade reddish-orange, like the stone in its pommel. "I will go ahead. Stay behind me."

He was a goat. I would have liked to go ahead, where I could see what was coming, rather than cowering behind his back. With no weapon, though, that would have been foolish, and so I fell in behind him, my eyes darting from one place to another, seeking to catch the flicker of motion that would be all the warning any laertis was likely to give before launching an attack.

There were no bodies of people on our path. That much, I thought, was a good sign. More than likely, some laertis had attempted to raid the camp, and the warriors that had remained with Mother and all of the others had driven them away and sought shelter elsewhere. They had simply not bothered to remove the corpses. Corpses typically made for an excellent warning to the next group who might dare to attempt a raid. I had seen the heads of countless D'Tarig and laertis stuck on tent poles and left at the entrance to our wadi, a silent promise of what would happen if the next group ventured too near.

The next group always did venture near, of course. An oasis was a precious resource, and a sheltered oasis doubly so. Many would attempt to take it, warnings or no. So far, though, none had ever succeeded in taking ours.

_Nor have they taken this one, _I told myself. _They would not dare._

The land sloped downwards at the feet of El Ma'ra. I thought I caught a glimpse of water, there where the sand dipped down.

There were more bodies littering the slope and floating, face-down, in the water of the near-dry oasis. All of the corpses that I could see were scaled, and there was no sound nearby but for our own breathing and the incessant, maddening buzz of flies.

On my next step forward, the ground shifted beneath my feet. It felt soft and unstable, unpleasantly similar to the way it had felt when I had stepped on that zombie back in our oasis.

I looked down, and saw a black-clad shape lying just beneath the surface layers of the sand.

As if pulled there by a length of string, my eyes followed the folds of black cloth. There was the suggestion of outflung arms and legs in the shape of the thing buried in the sand. Its torso ended at the neck, where the sand was heavy and red.

I had seen enough corpses in my life – but I had not expected to see one here, where our mother and aunts and my sister should have been. I froze.

Behind me, sand hissed, or so I thought. I thought I should look, but I could not seem to turn away. Something was _wrong, _this was not what I had expected, and I felt the yawning blankness of confusion and dismay trying to swallow me up.

A heartbeat later, I heard the shouting of the men, the slither of steel, and a snarl, just behind me, dry and rasping and muttering sounds which seemed to verge just on the edge of becoming words.

Then bright bloom of pain erupted in the back of my skull, and I heard no further words, whether in my language or any other.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: The Bedine have a much smaller pantheon than most other humans, and they generally don't worship the gods. They regard them as more powerful versions of their place-spirits, and, as with the spirits, mostly just try to avoid making them angry – though, very occasionally, they will ask a boon of either._

What gods they do know of, they call by different names. A'tar the Merciless is the goddess of the sun, and was once the sun god of old Netheril, Amaunator (who appears to have undergone a sex change in the intervening years). N'asr is Cyric, Lord of the Dead. Elah is the goddess of the moon, elsewhere known as Selune.

At least, that's what I've been able to glean. Any corrections or addendums to my knowledge of the lore are, as always, welcome.

_Also: Er. Surprise. *gulp*_

17.

When awareness came to me again, it came as if ashamed, sneaking back in so quietly that at first I did not even know it was there.

Then I realized that I was aware enough to wonder whether I was aware, which meant that I must not have been dead after all. Dead women did not wonder about these things.

Immediately afterwards, I wondered why I thought I should be dead. I could not remember how I had gotten here, or even where 'here' was. I knew that it was important to remember, but my recent memories seemed to be mashed together like overcooked soup.

I tried to move. Pain knifed through my head, and a surge of nausea made my stomach lurch. I felt the acrid taste of bile in the back of my throat, and tried to swallow it back. The last thing I wanted to do was to lie here and heave like a sick dog.

There was sand pressing against my cheek, gritty and too-warm and oddly sticky. I did not question why that was, though I did find it strange enough that it gave me a moment's pause. Then my thoughts flittered away from me again, and the moment was gone.

I lay there for a while longer, listening to the ringing in my ears. It came and went, and did not help my headache.

Eventually, I tried to push myself up on my elbows. This required a great deal of slow and careful squirming, because moving too quickly made the world spin so dizzyingly that I could not tell which way was up and which way was down.

Once there, I leaned – carefully – on one elbow and lifted a hand to touch my cheek. My fingers came away with clumps of sand clinging to them.

The sand was wet and red. I stared at it blankly. _Is that blood? _I thought. Then: _Is that _my _blood? _Tentatively, I ducked my head so that I could reach the back of it with my fingertips. My hair felt matted and sticky, and even applying the lightest of pressure against my scalp made my head throb even more insistently. There seemed to be a very large lump on my skull. I did not think it had been there before.

I winced, and lowered my hand. Then I blinked. My fingers were slicked with blood. It was a startlingly bright shade of crimson.

_So that _is _my blood, _I thought muzzily. A part of me knew that I should be alarmed, but everything kept tilting in a very disorienting way, and I could not seem to think straight. _Spirits. What happened? Where am I?_

With an effort, I managed to rise to my hands and knees, swaying and blinking as spots flashed on and off in front of my eyes.

I did not feel at all well, which was unusual. I hardly ever became ill. Now, though, I felt as if I might like to vomit up everything I had ever eaten. Only careful, measured breathing prevented it – that, and my determination not to make such an unseemly scene. It did not even matter whether anyone was here to see it. _I _would know.

"Urgh," I said, somewhat indistinctly, and pushed myself up onto my knees. I swayed there for a moment until my eyes cleared.

There was a heap of black robes in front of me. It was not far away, and it was not moving. It looked familiar.

I stared at it for what seemed like an age. I should not have been so forward – it was not appropriate – but my tongue did not seem to agree with my brain. "Marzouk?" I croaked. There was no response.

_Something is wrong, _I thought. I tried to stand, and got as far as a crouch before the dizziness grew so great that I lost my balance, and my hindquarters hit the sand.

It took another few aborted tries before I finally gained my feet. My head pounded unpleasantly. I tried to ignore it.

_I am Bedine, _I thought angrily. _My father was a warrior from a line of warriors. My mother bore eight children, of which five have survived. Surely _I_ can bear a little pain._

I staggered over to Marzouk and stared down at him. His face was pale and bloodless. He also had a hole in his neck.

Azhar lay not much farther away. I could not tell exactly what had killed him, though his robes clung very wetly to his side.

There were more corpses, too. Most of them were lizard-kin. Some few wore black robes – but there were not many of those.

Nothing moved. The oasis was deserted but for the dead, the flies, and myself.

_How- _I thought dazedly, and turned.

That was when I saw Malik.

I was almost certain that my brother should not have been lying entangled with a dead laertis like that. I was even more certain that he should not have had a spear sticking out of his chest.

My feet carried me closer to him. _I am the blood of al-Rashid, _I thought, panic rising in me like smoke. _I have seen death before. I am not afraid-_

Then I saw Malik's face, and I realized that while I _had _seen death before, I had never seen it in one of my own brothers. Somehow, that made it all very, very different.

The nausea rose suddenly and violently, and I had no hope of choking it back this time. Reeling, I lurched to one side, dropped to my hands and knees, and retched up the contents of my stomach into the sand.

Afterwards, I remained very still, breathing hard and wishing that I could risk rising from my undignified hunch without throwing up all over again. Entire armies seemed to be marching through my head, their feet all pounding in unison.

Gradually, as I crouched there and tried to gather my wits, I became aware of a quiet, wavering voice. It seemed to be singing tunelessly, or possibly chanting.

"One for silver, two for gold," the voice murmured in a whining, singsong way. It giggled. "All the pretty ladies, bought and sold-"

I tried to spin around, automatically. I regretted it an instant later when the pain hit. My hands flew to my head, and I doubled over, momentarily blinded. A part of knew that it was dangerous to allow myself to be distracted like this, that I was not alone, but that part of me seemed insubordinate to the part of me that felt as if someone had just cracked my skull open like an egg.

"Ten for the men, fine copper, fine copper," the singer crooned on. "Lop off a head, he's dead, and worth more that way, ha-ha-"

I managed to raise my head at last. I squinted towards the voice, and froze.

The laertis gave me a smile that was full of teeth. It was slumped against a rock not far from where Malik lay, its arms folded across its belly. I saw the edges of a gash beneath its hands. Loops of something shiny and pink and smooth bulged from beneath its fingers.

The creature turned its head, fixing me with an amber eye. "Thss," it said. "Mercy, girl. I will tell you what I know of where the others have gone. Give me mercy, and I give you secrets, yes?"

I had never heard one of the lizard-men speak. I had not even known that they _could _speak. That concern was secondary, though, to _what _it had just said to me.

_All the pretty ladies, bought and sold, _I thought, and took a step forward, panic rising all through me like steam building inside a kettle. "Where did they go?" I demanded shrilly.

The creature put its head to one side. "Not until you promise, lady," it whined.

Tears of helpless rage nearly blinded me. My voice rose to a scream, making my own head pound. "_Where did they go?_"

The laertis blinked its large eyes at me. It giggled softly. "Why, to the collar and the stave," it answered in its queer, high voice. It sighed, then, very sorrowfully. "I would have taken you, too," it confessed. "I'd have bound you before you woke, but-" It lifted its bloody hand and gestured towards its torn belly, grinning strangely. A loop of intestine slithered free. The laertis placed its hand over it. "Well, you see what your kinsman's sword has done to me, yes?"

I stared at it. Then, though I did not want to look, my eyes slid sideways for an instant, to Malik.

My brother was still holding our ancestor's sword. _He died fighting, _I thought numbly. That was good. It was important. Our family would have to know of it.

The sight of that sword had a peculiar effect on me.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had stumbled across the sand and picked up al-Rashid's sword from my brother's dead hand. The hilt turned in my hands, slippery with blood, so I wiped both hand and hilt on my robes until I thought my grip was secure again.

A warrior's grip on his sword was very important. It had to be firm enough that the sword would not leave your hand on the swing, but loose enough that the muscles in your wrist and hand were not rigid with tension, and could move freely and let the blade swing as it had to. Hammad had taught me that. He was dead, too. Malik was dead, al-Rashid was dead, Hammad was dead, and the only member of our tribe still standing in this place was an eighteen year old girl.

I thought that Hammad might have laughed himself silly at such a situation. For my part, I did not feel much like laughing. I did not feel much like anything at all – except, perhaps, for unaccountably cold, and very, very alone.

I stood, painfully, to level al-Rashid's blade at the laertis. The blade felt very good in my hands. It steadied me. "Tell me where they have gone," I said, very quietly.

The laertis's head lolled on its neck, as if it was too weak to hold its head up. It grinned at me, a flash of yellowed fangs against russet hide. "Perhaps, perhaps not. For a quick death, I will tell you," it said. "For a long death, though, I will await my masters patiently, and hope they make my undeath gentler for the show of loyalty. Perhaps they will make me into a hat stand, rather than arrow bait. Who can know?" It tittered. "They can do that, you know. Puissant, they are." It drew out the sibilants with a weary relish, gazing at me from beneath lidded, feverish eyes. "You may be advised to turn around and go home, my killer. Your tribe is lost, and you have no army at your back. You alone will not find your people again."

I tried to pick the useful words from that flow of nonsense and horror. With my head feeling as it did, such a task was not easy. I kept my eyes and blade trained on the laertis, and tried desperately to gather my darting, scattered thoughts. "Who are your masters?" I asked finally. "Tell me, and I will kill you quickly."

The laertis giggled softly. "Yes. I think you would enjoy that," it agreed. "Alas, for the bitter black hearts of the Bedine race."

My hand shook slightly. I tightened my grip on al-Rashid's sword. It would not do to drop it. "As you enjoyed killing them?" I rasped, gesturing to take in the bodies of my tribesmen. "Is that it?"

"Oh, but I did not enjoy it. It was my task, for which I was well-paid. Pity I will never see that coin. Ah, me." The laertis heaved a rattling sigh. "Well, then, my killer," it said jovially. "Swear to give me a quick death, and I will tell you what I know."

At that moment, I would have bargained with N'asr himself, had the Lord of the Dead promised to show me where my mother and sister had gone. "I swear," I said hoarsely. "Now tell me where my people have gone."

The laertis sighed. "Ahh, to be dead," it murmured. Then it burst into wheezing, high-pitched laughter. To me, it sounded quite mad. "Very well then, my killer. Your people were taken to Hlaunga, the place-which-was-made. From there, I do not know. It all depends on market conditions, eh?"

My breathing was rapid and shaky, even with a sword in my hand. "Where is this Hlaunga?" I demanded.

"On the Black Road."

"Where is that?"

The lizard-man shrugged. "Away from here. I do not know how far," it admitted blithely. "I am no chieftain. I follow, not lead."

I stared at it disbelievingly. "You are lying."

It lifted one shoulder in a feeble shrug. "I am dying," it returned calmly. "What need have I to lie?"

The tip of my blade wavered. "T-to protect your masters. Obviously."

"Why? They have not protected me." The lizard-man smiled with cool indifference. Its amber eyes gleamed up at me mockingly. "I have told you what I know – such as it is. I have no more to say," it said. "I have kept my promise, my killer. What of yours?"

I stared at it, a red haze seething around the edges of the chill that covered me.

Then, abruptly, I moved. The creature, I decided, was mad, and vile, and suddenly I could not suffer its presence a moment longer.

There was another spear nearby. I picked it up in my free hand, because it would have been far too much of an honor for the laertis to die by our ancestor's blade.

I said nothing. I had wasted enough of my breath already, and I was no good with words.

Unfortunately, my first strike with the spear did not go through the creature's throat, as I had intended. I had never picked up a spear before, my vision was doubling, and my aim was off, so the spear went partway through the lizard-man's chest, instead.

I did not let that bother me, though. I was killing vermin, nothing more. Numbly, I yanked the spear out and drove it down again. That time, it went all the way through, which came as something of a relief. The effort had tired me much too rapidly.

I released the haft of the spear and looked down at the laertis. It seemed dead, and was no longer speaking, spirits be thanked for that small mercy. Satisfied, I turned away.

I left the spear where it was. The laertis had not even given my brother the dignity of removing the spear from _his_ chest after killing him. I would not offer any of them the same courtesy.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. I stumbled among the corpses, and I moved among the burnt and trampled tents like a ghost. The hem of my robe turned grey with ash.

Most of the dead were laertis. My people had put up a fight. I saw belt-daggers embedded in throats and knitting needles stuck in eyes. I had never felt more proud.

Nor had I ever felt quite so alone, or had the desert ever felt quite so immense.

Zebah was not among the corpses. Neither was our mother, or Fayid, or anyone else that I knew very well. I did not know how to react to that finding. I would have wept with relief, but the fact that they were not here meant that they were somewhere else in the vastness of the Anauroch, and I did not know how to find them. I did not even know where to start. All I had was a name, but no direction. I could not find any clear tracks, and all that I could glean from the oasis itself was that laertis had come, and fought, and then my mother and sister and aunts and cousins had all vanished, and all of their valuables with them.

_I need to go back, _I thought desperately, clutching al-Rashid's sword to my chest. _I need to tell Ali. Ali will help me. Perhaps-_

_Perhaps what? _another, more rational part of my brain cut in angrily. _Perhaps nothing. It will take two tendays to get back. Two tendays, while the trail goes cold and Zebah remains in the hands of slavers-_

I felt faint. I could not let myself imagine what was happening to my sister. If I did, I thought I would collapse and never get up again.

_I am the strong one, _I told myself, feeling a wave of hysteria threatening to close over my head, like quicksand. _I have to be. She needs me. They all do._

One responsibility called to me first, though. Before I could do anything else – before I could even think of it – I had to burn the bodies. These were my people. I could not leave them for the vultures.

I had helped to move corpses before, and to tend to them before their last rites. The work was familiar, if grisly, though I had to stop many times to catch my breath and take a drink. Dead men were heavier than water jugs or dead goats, even when you dragged them across sand.

Still, it was not so bad - until I reached Malik. Then, it was bad.

I did not like to look at his face. He looked different, somehow, like and yet unlike the Malik I knew.

I pulled the spear out of his chest, trying not to notice how much my own brother resembled any other corpse. Then I dragged my brother to my makeshift pyre and did my best to straighten his robes and make him look more dignified. Finally, I knelt. "Ancestors watch over you, Malik," I whispered, and laid the lizard-man's spear at his feet. His enemy's weapon would burn with him, as it should. "If you see Hammad, tell him…" I trailed off, and swallowed. "Tell him that I miss him."

Before I left Malik there, I unlatched his sword belt, and sheathed al-Rashid's sword in the creaking old scabbard before winding the belt around my hips. Malik no longer needed either object. I did, if I was to survive long enough to find where our people had gone.

It occurred to me that I was suddenly very, very tired. My head felt cloudy and was throbbed with renewed pain, I could not seem to think straight any longer, and I felt far too dizzy to stand.

Dully, I stumbled over to the feet of El Ma'ra and sat in what meager shade he offered. I thought that, before I did anything else, I would close my eyes for a moment – just for a moment. I was so tired, and everything was so confusing. It would only be for a moment…

When I woke again, it was to see the sky gone dusk-purple. The sun had nearly finished setting, and Elah's pale face had just begun to smile in the fading sky.

My head did not hurt nearly as much, but my heart thudded in my chest as if my blood had thickened to a syrup, and my throat was so parched that it hurt to swallow.

_Dehydration, _I thought in alarm. I dropped my hand to my side and groped for my water skin. My fingers were as tremulous and weak as an old woman's. They made it very hard for me to pull the stopper out, and it was even more of a challenge to lift the skin and drink without spilling the water. _Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You should know better than to drink so little, with all the time you have spent in the sun today._

Then, several careful, shaky sips later, I paused, the skin halfway to my lips. _I must be mad, _I thought. _I am hearing voices._

The sound of my own blood in my ears and the buzzing of flies had nearly masked the steady undercurrent of muttering. Whether I was mad or no, though, the voice did not grow any fainter, much less go away. If anything, it grew louder.

It was a strange voice, a sort of rolling, drawn-out sneer of a voice in an accent that seemed very strange to me, and it went on and on as if listing its grievances for the sky and sand and the dead to hear.

"Gah!" it exclaimed. "_What _have I stepped in?" I heard a squelching sound, and a soft growl of displeasure. "Oh. Someone's bowels. I see. How delightful."

I sat with the mouth of the skin still resting on my lower lip. I felt my forehead furrow. Beyond that, I did not move. I had not expected to find another living soul here. I was feeling, it must be said, a little stunned to find that I was not so alone, after all.

"Otyugh-kissing, bottom-feeding little rock-eater," the voice went on irritably. "I should have stepped on that woman in mid-flattery and taken the money from her corpse. 'Oh, it should be _easy _for a sorcerer of your _puissance _to discover what happened to our shipments.' Pah!" There came another soft squelch. "Oh, Cyric's _Balls. _That stain is going to be impossible to get out."

I stared out over the oasis. It was getting dark, and what I could see of the figure gave me only a general sense of great height, broad shoulders, and overall berobed-ness. I did not know who it was that had chosen to come here, but that did not matter.

What mattered was that there was someone here, and they might know something of what had happened. Perhaps they were one of the culprits, return to scavenge. Perhaps they were only a scavenger, drawn here by rumor. Whatever its purpose here happened to be, it behooved me to find out. I had to. I had no better ideas, and perhaps this person might be persuaded to give me some.

It was not, however, very prudent to make my presence known until I had the upper hand. _That _was something Hammad had taught me very well, wily old camel thief that my uncle had been. I only hoped that my actions in this place did him justice.

Carefully, slowly, I stoppered my water skin, slipped its leathern loop back through my belt, and drew al-Rashid's sword as noiselessly as I could, muffling both sword and scabbard in my robes. I wondered whether I should also kick off my sandals so that my bare feet would make less sound, and whether I should hide the scimitar behind my back, to hide its telltale glint.

I chose to do both, and advanced stealthily, mindful to set my feet lightly, so that I could catch myself if I began to slip. It would not do to announce my presence by falling flat on my face.

I need not have bothered. Whoever this person was, he was not paying a lick of attention to his surroundings.

Silently, I sneered. This man – for no woman would have a voice that rumbled so deeply - was obviously an outlander. Only an outlander would be fool enough to arrive at an unknown oasis at dusk and stomp around so noisily, oblivious to the potential risks.

Fortunately, there were the slumped remains of a tent to hide me as I drew closer. The light was fading, and I could only see the intruder from the back. He was very tall, very broad across the shoulders, and wore robes, though they were colorful and elaborate and therefore utterly unlike mine. If not for his size, I would have taken him for a mage.

That thought nudged at something in my brain, some half-conscious memory that lay buried beneath the panic and the tears and the ache in my head. It lay far beneath, however, and so I could not quite tease it out.

I paused, and watched as the stranger stood with his hands on his hips. I could not see his face, but something about his stance made me certain that he was glaring. "There is nothing here," he growled, as if to himself. "Nothing but spell-torn corpses, flies, and a fug so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Bah! This is a waste of my time."

Then, suddenly, he paused. I saw his frame go still with wariness, and his head half-turned, revealing a _very _strange profile and a queer greenish-gold glint, like a cat's eyes in the dark, and it occurred to me that perhaps he had not been a fool, after all.

Perhaps he had simply been very, _very _confident.

I experienced a moment's doubt – just a moment's, before I saw the flames gutter up around the stranger's hands, and realized that I may have been in rather more trouble than I had anticipated.

_"When in doubt, consider this," _counseled Hammad's voice in my head, dredging up the memory of some long-ago sparring session. _"You can either strike first and decipher your opponent's intentions later - or you can speak first and risk discovering your opponent's intentions the hard way."_

_Right, _I thought, and crouched to spring. _Hit him first. Ask questions later._ _Understood, my sheikh._

I hit the stranger at around chest height, and I had one fist on his collar and the other holding al-Rashid's blade at his throat by the time we hit the ground.

Then, when I saw his cat's eyes widen, and I belatedly took in the feral cast of his face and the greenish-gray tint to his skin, even in the half-light of dusk, and I finally remembered where I had seen him before.

The sound of my upraised voice sent a snacking vulture flapping away on its ungainly wings.

"_You?!"_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Surprise!_

_Coming up, the leading candidate for 'most likely to single-handedly pay for his psychotherapist's kids' college educations'. _

18.

_In retrospect,_ I thought meditatively. _Xanos would have been much better off had he just stayed dead._

From what little I could remember, death had not had much to recommend it. It had, however, been restful, which was more than I might say for my life before or since.

The state I was in now was not restful. It was horizontal, that was true, which might have been restful under different circumstances.

These were not those circumstances.

In_ these_ circumstances, I was lying flat on my back in the middle of a godsforsaken wasteland on a completely slop-brained mission from that money-grubbing, goblin-twaddling little sack of troll sputum in Tel Badir who, if I lived long enough to return there, was going to hear from me, in loving detail, just _where _she could shove her missing shipments, and, to top it all off, I had just been blindsided by the strangest damned projectile I had ever encountered in my life.

I was not certain to what species I should classify the thing which had just hit me. At first glance, it had seemed to be some kind of low-flying, unusually well-armed gibberling.

Further observation had revealed it to be apparently female and most likely human, which had come as something of a surprise to Xanos. It was as if some crazed, roving trebuchet crew had run out of boulders and had taken to loading their slings with small, angry women instead.

The..._creature _in question, because that was truly the only way to describe her, was currently sitting on my chest, which was an admittedly unusual position for _any _woman to be in. She was also holding a sword to my throat, which was much less unusual and much more problematic.

She also appeared to know Xanos, which was troubling, because I could not quite recall where _I_ had seen her before.

"_You_," she croaked again, her eyes fixed on my face as if she had seen a ghost. With her matted hair, blood-smeared cheeks, and bare and filthy feet, she resembled nothing so much as…well, she could not be a hedge witch, because there were no hedges in the Anauroch. A cactus witch, perhaps? That might have explained the prickly disposition. "I know you. You were…at the oasis. At _our _oasis." She tilted her head and stared at me until, sword or no sword, I was tempted to pick her up and drop her down the nearest gorge. No one ever subjected my face to such close scrutiny because they were enjoying its aesthetic perfection. I did not relish such attention now. "You killed Kel-Garas."

Recollection flickered. I looked at her more closely. Beneath the mask of blood, her eyes were large and dark, almost doelike. They were very distinctive. Had the rest of her not looked as if it had just been spewed up out of a hill giant's cauldron, I might have recognized them sooner. "You are one of the so-called 'cursed' tribe, from the oasis of the Green Palm," I said slowly. I would have cocked my head, had I the space to do so. "You were that bloodthirsty little Bedine girl who was stuck like a burr to-" The name lodged in my throat. I would not say it. I _refused _to say it. "-that_ bloody _woman's backside," I grated.

The girl frowned, slowly. "You mean Rebecca."

I bared my teeth, and felt my head jerk irritably. The infuriating little creature's sword bit anew into my throat, and my scowl deepened. "_Yes. _Her. You need not speak her name. I am well acquainted with that liquor-addled harpy – far better than you, I might add." Much good _that_ had done me.

My miniscule attacker's eyes flickered away for an instant, as if expecting that _bloody_ woman to pop out of the sand. She needn't have bothered looking. Were that _bloody _woman around, she would already have announced her presence – most likely by tripping over a corpse, falling flat on her face, and cursing at the top of her lungs. "Is she with you?" the Bedine girl asked tentatively.

My voice rose to a near-roar. "_No._" Nine Hells, could the girl not understand when to leave well enough alone? The itinerant priestess had _left_, no doubt to itinerate straight into the nearest gutter, where she could pickle herself into happy oblivion. She had left, and good riddance to her. If whatever strange friendship had grown up between us no longer mattered to her,it certainly did not matter to me.

The girl bit her lip uncertainly. "Then…what are you doing here?" she asked. Her eyes narrowed with renewed suspicion. "Did you follow us?"

I snorted. "Xanos has done no such thing."

I had never seen a woman curl her lip like that, as if she might like to bite an answer out of me. I wondered, idly, if she might be rabid. Was that common among the Bedine? Might it explain this tendency of theirs to greet strangers with threats of death and dismemberment rather than, say, a hearty handshake? "Then answer my question," she growled. "Why are you here?"

A fine question. I would have asked it of myself, had the answer not been staring me right in the face.

I was here because I had had nothing better to do, and I was in this position because I was a godsdamned moron. I had reached near-epic levels of stupidity. I had _surpassed _the bounds of mere idiocy and leapt into the heady reaches of utter and absolute cretinitude.

I had _had _to hesitate. I had _had _to wonder what in the Nine bloody buggering Hells a terrified little Bedine woman – because, with her dark hair and dark eyes and brown skin and voluminous black robes and evident bloodlust, there was really no mistaking her for anything else - was roaming this dead place at night, alone, amidst the corpses of her kinsmen.

I had allowed my curiosity to get the better of me, just for an instant, and this was what I gained for it – an interrogation at swordpoint.

Well, I would be damned if I allowed some deranged little termagant to think that she could intimidate Xanos Messarmos.

My lips peeled back in a horrible smile, showing off a set of canines which I knew were far longer and sharper than any _human's_ teeth had a right to be. I was well aware of the effect the sight had on others. There had been times when I had been able to win a fight without raising a hand. All I had to do was smile. "Oh, I do not know," I replied pleasantly. "I thought I might do a little sight-seeing."

The girl's dark eyes glittered. Her hand, much to my surprise, did not waver. Perhaps she truly _was_ rabid. It would certainly have explained her willingness to attack people who were more than twice her size. "You are mocking me," she said flatly.

My smile widened. "Yes," I said. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."

The girl increased the pressure of her sword against my throat in reply. "I will ask again," she said grimly. "Why are you here?"

My grin went, I thought, slightly fixed."Picking wildflowers," I retorted. "Would you like one? I will gladly give you an entire bunch, if you get that godsdamned sword away from my neck." The last came out as a clench-jawed snarl. "Else you risk making Xanos very angry and having your precious blade melted to slag."

The girl's face had settled into a rictus of terrified determination. "You would not dare," she said flatly.

My blood rose to a slow boil at her insolence. Heat aggregated at the ends of my fingertips. Did she have any idea what I was capable of? Any idea at all? "You would not dare to tell me what I would and would not dare, you ignorant little savage," I rasped.

"Savage? Hah! That you would say such a thing only proves that you outlanders are the ignorant ones," she retorted, her voice shaking with either fear or anger, and turned her blade to nudge it up beneath my chin. "Now, answer my question, _mage_."

_Mage. _I had fought for that title, starved and bled and endured slur after slur for it, and she said it as if the word itself had left her tongue coated in filth. "Hah! Not _bloody_ likely," I sneered. "Do not think that I am impressed by this display, girl. Xanos has been threatened by far more terrifying creatures than you."

A sudden smirk eased the rictus from the girl's face. "Ah, but none of _them _have their swords at your throat right now, do they?" she asked smugly.

She had a point. A very sharp one, as a matter of fact – and, if I did not miss my guess, enchanted. I could feel the blade chafing against my throat, the magic in it burning against my skin and threatening to give me the closest – and possibly the _last _- shave of my life.

I scowled deeply. "Impudent little creature," I snarled. "I should incinerate you on the spot."

Some of the blood drained from her face. "You should know that at the first sight of fire, I will take your head," she ground out.

I raised an eyebrow, not bothering to conceal my scorn. "Really?" I drawled. "What will you do with it?"

Her eyes flickered uncertainly. "What?"

"Stuff it and mount it on your wall? Use it as a soup tureen? Stick a candle in it and use it to frighten small children? Do tell. I am all ears. Unless, of course, you would like to cut those off as well."

I saw comprehension dawn on her face, as clearly as anger and confusion and fear had already been written on it. It was followed, almost immediately, by disgust. "You are extraordinarily unmannerly," she stated disapprovingly.

"Says the woman who has decided to sit on top of a stranger's chest."

She flushed deeply. "I only do as I must, outlander," the girl hissed from between clenched teeth. "My tribe is vanished, and you are the only living person I have seen since-"

She could not seem to finish the sentence. I finished it for her. "Since every other living soul here was murdered by asabi mercenaries?" I suggested dulcetly.

Then, immediately after I had said it, I saw the girl's filthy face blanch. I had been watching it for any sign of wavering or inattention, but_ this_ was not quite what I had expected. Her eyes had gone wide and glistening, and her grip on her sword was white-knuckled. I paused.

There had been Bedine among the dead. Belatedly, I wondered if those corpses really _had _been members of her own tribe. Given her words, and the bloodied and exhausted state of her, that was most likely the case. Something about her said _lone survivor._

A wayward part of my brain burst into ironic applause. _Ah. Excellent work, Xanos! _it complimented me._ You have a heretofore undiscovered talent for making little girls cry. How _do_ you do it?_

I felt my jaw tighten. _Shut up, _I snarled inwardly. _Best for her if she learns the value of surviving on her own, anyway._

That niggling little voice in my head ignored my attempts to stifle it, and persisted in its needling. _Hah! The way you were obliged to learn it, you mean? How _is _that working out for you, anyway? Is the crippling loneliness all that you expected it to be?_

_Shut up._

The silence was…awkward. I opened my mouth to speak, though to say what, I was not altogether sure. Something that would not make the girl burst into tears, I hoped. For one thing, if she began weeping now, the tears would combine with that blood on her face and spatter all over my robe, and it was such a nuisance to get bloodstains out of silk. "There were rumors of a conflict in this oasis, and shipments have been going awry in this area," I heard myself say, grudgingly. I did not particularly want to reward the girl's bad behavior, but the words kept coming, dragged out from some unruly part of my brain. Perhaps it was that part which did not want to add 'setting beleaguered young women on fire and dumping them into a lake' to my long list of sins. Or perhaps – and this was a distinct possibility – not all of my mind had come back from the afterlife intact. Gods and demons both knew that nothing had felt quite right since Undrentide. "Zhentarim involvement is suspected in both cases," I went on. "I was sent to investigate."

The girl blinked. Roughly, she sniffed, and wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand. "Zhentarim," she murmured, her forehead furrowing in confusion. "But…these are laertis-"

I rolled my eyes. "Laertis? They are asabi," I corrected acerbically. "I do not know what you savages call them-"

Her eyes narrowed. "Do not insult _us _because _you _savages have decided to call the lizard-menby the wrong name, outlander," she shot back. Then she frowned, and confusion settled over her face like a cloud. "But I still do not understand," the girl went on, more hesitantly. "What do these lizard-men have to do with Zhentarim, or Zhentarim with them-"

I tried to shift slightly, uneasily. I was finding it harder and harder to breathe, which may have had something to do with the eight or nine stone of surprisingly _sturdy _Bedine femininity which seemed to be slowly but inexorably trying to crush my ribs to a powder. The pressure of the little she-devil's sword against my neck grew more insistent, however, and I stilled, scowling up at her impatiently. "Possibly nothing. These asabi could have belonged to an independent group of slavers," I said shortly. "Or they might have been working as mercenaries for the Zhentarim. The Zhentarim – for whom Xanos is, by the way, currently developing a fierce sympathy - have no love for the Bedine-"

"Nor we for them," she interrupted grimly. "They would enslave us and add us to their armies, or kill us all to make way for their trade routes. I know _that _much. My uncle even fought them, in his youth."

"Ah? Then you should, with the aid of that quaint tribal wisdom of yours, know that the Zhentarim would rather kill or subjugate the Bedine than kidnap an entire tribe. Too much trouble."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then why would they have had anything to do with this?"

"That is what Xanos is trying to _tell _you, you benighted bumpkin. They most likely have nothing to do with this. The only Bedine the Zhentarim are interested in capturing alive are sheikhs and sorceresses, and the latter are notoriously hard to find alive and in one piece once yourpeople are done with th-"

I stopped abruptly. The blood had drained from the girl's face again, leaving it, to my rapidly adjusting night vision, as round and chilly as the moon's.

_Congratulations, Xanos! _For some reason, this portion of my brain sounded a great deal like Drogan._ Ye've made the lass cry again. Ye really are good at this, aren't ye?_

I frowned. _Since when did you become the voice of my conscience, old man? _I thought blackly.

_Since I told ye that I thought ye actually had one, boy, _my conscience retorted, and I had no response to that. It came to something, when your own brain outsmarted you, but there it was. Xanos was so brilliant that sometimes he stumped even himself.

The girl's lips parted on one word. "Zebah," she whispered, and I thought she swayed, her eyelashes fluttering as if she was seriously entertaining the possibility of fainting. The pressure against my throat eased, for a moment.

My muscles tensed. Power lapped through my veins, a lazy lava flow of sheer intoxication. Holding it back was, as ever, like damming a river with a teaspoon. That was a considerable improvement on what it had been like before I had met Drogan, when any attempts to hold the power back had been like trying to fend off an avalanche with an umbrella.

_Here is your chance, Xanos, _I thought. _The little fool has let her attention wander. Turn her into a human torch or drop her into the lake, but whatever you intend to do, do it now._

I did not, much to my own personal astonishment, move. I was a thrice-damned, Hells-bound fool, so mad I was practically dribbling, so far gone 'round the bend that I was no longer even within waving distance of anything which had even begun to think of contemplating the remotest possibility of turning into something which vaguely resembled good sense. I was more likely to grow sparkly little wings and turn into a godsdamned faerie o' the woods and start shooting rainbows and sunbeams and dandelions out of my arse than I was to leave the question unasked. I knew it. I did not like it, but I knew it.

"Do you mean to tell Xanos," I asked, very precisely, "-that there _is_ a sorceress in your tribe?" I lifted an eyebrow. "And she has not even been exiled yet?"

I saw the girl swallow. She did not blink. She seemed to have forgotten how. "My sister," she said hoarsely. "She…no one knew. No one could know." Whatever stubborn fury had been animating her before seemed to have deserted her. "I told her not to use it," she whispered. "I told her…"

I stared up at her. "How old was she?" I heard myself ask, quietly.

The girl scowled in stubborn, tearful defiance. "Zebah _is _twelve."

_Just starting to show her power, then, _I thought. _ Nine and a half Hells._

_Aye._ Drogan's brogue popped up from whatever corner of my brain it had been hiding in. _ Ye remember what that was like, lad…don't ye? Half the village terrified o' ye and what ye might do, but none half so terrified as yerself._

A muscle in my cheek twitched irritably. O_h, shut up, you fat old fool._

I pulled my eyes away from the girl. "Xanos can do nothing for you," I told her bluntly. "The Zhentarim are not known to be kind to their captives. No doubt your sister is already-"

"_No_!" The word erupted from her as a full-throated shout, and she tangled her fist in my collar again, her voice low and urgent and pleading. "You killed a lich. You can help me."

Once, I might have leapt at the chance to prove my own power against such a group. Now…I felt nothing. The more power I gained, the greater my enemies would be, and on and on until one of them defeated me at last, and it all ended in one last gasp of absolute futility. Besides, even the greatest of power meant very little when it still could not save you from the enemy within. Karsus, in his madness, had shown me that. "No," I said hollowly. "Give it up, girl. There are dozens of known Zhentarim outposts in this desert, and the gods only know how many more. There are thousands of Zhentarim agents, many of which do not advertise their affiliation, and if there were any trees in this godsforsaken place, you could shake any one of them and knock loose a few Zhentarim informants."

Her full lips tightened until nearly all the blood had left them. "Then they can inform us of where to find my tribe," she said stiffly.

_Why_ would she not listen to reason? Had the damnable girl not had her knees planted on my arms, I would have shaken her. "There is no threat you can make which will exceed the tortures any traitor to the syndicate will find at Zhentil Keep," I replied, weary beyond measure. "If you ask any questions, they will know it, and they will crush you, or move your people so far away that you will never find them." It was strange. _She_ was the one with her sword at my throat, and yet here I was, flat on my back and methodically stripping away the last of a young woman's illusions. There were times when Xanos really did hate himself. "This is the reality, little girl. Your sister is lost to you. They all are. Save yourself. It is all you have left."

The little fool was already shaking her head. "I cannot believe that," she said stubbornly, and leveled me with a strangely uncertain glare. "You _will _help me. There must be a way," she insisted, and bit her lip. "Alone, I…I do not know who to trust, where to go, where to look for them. You do. You killed Kel-Garas, where my entire tribe could not. Perhaps you can find them, where I cannot." She took a deep breath. "You _must_ help me."

Heat gathered in my veins, and I bared my teeth at her in frustration. "And you think you can force Xanos, at swordpoint, into a fool's errand?" I growled. "I do not capitulate to _threats, _little girl."

Her eyes flickered to something beyond me. She went very still. "Threats?" she asked softly. Her eyes dropped to her blade, and she smiled in a very disturbing way. "I do not need threats."

Then, before I could gather enough of my wits to stop her, she had wrenched her sword away and laid it against her open palm. I thought I saw the faint heat of my own blood clinging to its edge. "El Ma'ra, spirit of this place, hear me," she said loudly. "Your lost children need you, and I cannot find them alone. I need this outlander's help. Give it to me, and I will pay the price." Her lips trembled. "Whatever it is, I will pay it," she blurted, and, were I one of those spirits, I might even have believed her. Her eyes glowed with absolute conviction.

That was, perhaps, why I lay as stupidly as a log when I saw her shoulders tense beneath her robes, and why I still did not react when she yanked her sword across her palm.

Or perhaps the reason I did not react was because, of all the potential actions I might have expected the deranged little woman to take, I had not expected her to begin slicing herself to ribbons.

I stared as blood rose in the girl's palm, a welling line of red to night sight and normal vision both. "By my blood and his, let this mage be bound to help my cause and do no harm to myself or my people, until this thing is done," the girl announced, and swung her blade outwards, towards the thirsty earth.

The patter of blood against the sand jerked me, too late, out of my idiot reverie.

I did not bother with gentleness, but sat upright, heaving the conniving little she-devil off of me with an irate scream. I had felt the power rise, the magic settle over me, the curse sink in its hooks. I did not know its origins, but I knew its nature well enough, and sheer outrage brought the fire of magic to my hands. I flung it towards where she sprawled, her sword knocked from her hands …

…and the fire vanished before it met her, as if it had hit a wall.

The girl went still. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes. "Oh," she said wonderingly. "It worked."

I stared. "_What _did you do?" I roared.

Painfully, the girl sat up. She looked at me through a hank of tangled hair, her eyes as dark as two pools in the moonlight. "I did what I had to do," she said hoarsely.

"Had to," I repeated, slowly. Heat blazed behind my eyes. "_Had _to." I looked at her, and raised my hand. Fire sheathed my fingers. "How _dare _you, girl! Do you have any idea what you have done?"

Her next words only added insult to injury. "Yes," she admitted frankly. Her eyes glistened. "And, for what it is worth, I am sorry. It was the only way-"

_Only way. Hah! _"I will kill you for this," I vowed.

The Bedine girl stood. "You will have your chance to kill me when we have found my people," she promised grimly. "Not before." Then, calmly, she stooped to pick up her sword, and leveled a glare at me that would have done even my orcish forebears proud. "For now, you are in my service, mage," she stated grimly, and gestured at me with her scimitar. "And I will know all that you know of the Zhentarim."


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: In which Nadiya discovers that she may have bitten off more than she can chew._

19.

I was beginning to suspect that I had just made a very, very large mistake.

The mistake in question sat propped against El Ma'ra, his arms folded across his chest as if he planned to stay there forever.

He was glaring at me, this mistake of mine. He had not stopped glaring at me since he had learned what I had done, and while he had told me something of the Zhentarim, he had done so reluctantly, his every word a bitten-off snarl.

Since then, he had said nothing to me at all. Only glowered.

_Our mother is going to kill me._ It was a very silly thought, under the circumstances. Silly or no, though, I could not shake it.

I had done a very bad thing. Not only had I spoken directly to a strange man. I had…I had _sat _on him. Not in _that_ way, of course. It had been entirely innocent. I had merely been trying to hold him down so that he would not kill me. Kneeling on his arms and holding a sword to his throat had seemed like the most straightforward means to that end.

But that was not the point. The point was that I had been in close proximity to a male who was not – and on this point, there could be no doubt, because none of the men in my family were close to seven feet tall and slightly greenish– related to me. And I had spoken to him. No – I had threatened him. At swordpoint. With our great ancestor al-Rashid's sword, spirits help me. And I had done it while sitting astride the outlander's chest in a way that would have made our mother hang me from our tent's main pole by my _wrists _until I remembered how decent, well-behaved females were supposed to comport themselves.

I scrubbed my hands down my face. I was glad for the moonlight. From the feel of it, I was blushing so crimson that I should have lit up the night like a bonfire.

I had made a very large mistake. I had asked the spirits for the outlander's help.

And now, it seemed, I had it.

That is…I sort of had it. I was not entirely certain. It was very hard to tell. So far, the only thing he seemed inclined to do was try to murder me with his eyes, because he could not do it any other way.

The strange thing was that I half-thought he might succeed in his endeavour. The outlander's eyes were unsettlingly strange. Before sunset I had noticed that they were a color I had only ever seen before on cats, with irises the color of burnished gold and slitted pupils. Now that the sun had set, they also shone like a cat's eyes in the dark, reflecting the scarce light with an unearthly green sheen. He also had a mane of very black hair, caught at the nape of his neck with a silver clasp, and harsh, almost animalistic features. The overall effect was that of being glowered at by a large, angry lion.

He still said nothing. The silence was so thick that I could have sliced it into bricks and stacked those bricks high enough to reach El Ma'ra's head. I swallowed. "You will have to speak eventually, you know," I mumbled. "I do not know how the curse will work-"

The outlander grunted sourly. He did not take his eyes off of me. The curl of his lip, however, was eloquent. That, too, reminded me of a large, angry lion – one which was ready to close its jaws on my head.

I tried to rally. "-but I am certain that we will not find my people very quickly. It may be many days-" I heard another grunt, this one sounding somehow skeptical, and frowned. "-or tendays, perhaps, but surely we cannot…we cannot carry on without-"

His words came in a slow, insolent drawl. "Without _what_?" he asked, his teeth closing on the last word as if he truly did want to snap his jaws shut around my neck.

I gritted my own teeth. "Without _speaking,_" I replied sharply_. _If the spirits had not already granted me such a large boon, I would have begged them for patience. As it was, I supposed that I would have to find _that _on my own. "I will need your advice, your help-"

He threw his hands up in the air. "Oh, you will have it, no doubt," he proclaimed with a black kind of glee. "You have quite enslaved me. Gods only know how an ignorant little girl devoid of any magical talent whatsoever has managed to pull off such a hex, but Xanos knows a geas when he sees it."

Guilt caved in on me, tangled and dark. My people had spent centuries avoiding enslavement to the aims of another, because that was exactly what Kel-Garas had done, and would have continued to do – take our wills and lives away and make us into soldiers for his cause. What had I just done to this mage went against everything I knew to be right. And he was the one who had _killed _the one who would have enslaved us.

_But I had to, _I thought plaintively. _I had to._ _ I needed help, and he refused, though I am certain he has the power to help me. What else was I to do?_

"I…I said I was sorry," I said hesitantly. My voice, spirits take it, rose to a nervous squeak at the end. I had to wrap my hand around the hilt of al-Rashid's sword and take a deep breath before I thought I could go on. "And I _am_ sorry. Had I had a choice, I would not have done it-"

The mage's eyes flared with a strange light. "You _have_ done it, little girl," he snapped back at me. "And you will kindly refrain from adding insult to injury by faking remorse for your actions." Then he jerked his shoulders irritably and settled back against El Ma'ra,. "It is dark," he said curtly. "We cannot go anywhere at night, unless you would like to relieve me of this curse by getting eaten by a stinger."

Had I not already felt so guilty, I would have marched over there and kicked him in the head for his churlish attitude. As it was, my reply came out in a very strangled tone. "No."

"Ah?" He said this with mild curiosity. Then his great yellow eyes blinked, once, and he looked away. "Pity," he murmured, and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the spire. "Go…do whatever it is you will do. But do not disturb Xanos until morning."

I gritted my teeth and stood. I did so slowly, because my head still did not feel quite right. "Fine. Be that way, if that is what you prefer. _I _am going down to the oasis," I announced scathingly.

This earned no response.

I imagined, briefly, burying the mage up to the neck in sand, leaving him for the vultures, and setting out on my own. It would not actually solve anything, but the thought did make me feel better. A little.

Then, because our mother had raised me to be polite, and it was only polite to offer water to any who needed it, no matter who they were or what they had done or how unbearably, _insufferably_ obnoxious they happened to be, I added, "Would you like some water?"

Still no response.

I felt the urge to stamp my foot, and only just barely managed to stop myself before I did just that.

Then I turned on my heel, drew my sword, and went down to the oasis. The alternative would have been to punch the outlander repeatedly, which I thought would only make me feel worse.

Much as I wanted to hit him, he did have _some _right to be angry with me. I just wished that he did not. It would have made things so much simpler.

When I had first thought of asking the spirits to bind the mage to my aid, I had thought myself very clever. Here was a powerful and dangerous outlander, wiser than I in the ways of the world and capable of killing such imposing things as liches. If I bound him, he would help me without betraying me, and I might get my people back. It had all been so clear.

Now, though, it had all gone muddy again.

I had won no great prize with my brilliant idea. I had a powerful ally, true, but also a very reluctant one. Also, he was profane and ill-mannered and cruel and very selfish to refuse me when I had asked for his help the first time.

I supposed that I could have begged for his help, or offered him-

I flushed deeply. _No, _I thought sharply. _Better he be cursed than I abandon every last scrap of honor that I have left to me. _Besides, I hadn't the slightest idea how to go about offering…_that_, and in any case I had made it to eighteen years without enticing any man to even think of marrying me, so how was I to entice one to risk life and limb on my behalf?

_Why should he risk anything for you at all? He is an outlander, _a more rational voice within me counseled. _And the Zhentarim are known to be dangerous. Would Ali have risked his warriors for a lost caravan?_

I pushed irritably through the reeds at the water's edge. _It was still selfish, _I thought stubbornly.

_Well. Yes. But so was making him your slave._

I did not know why I was arguing with myself, much less why it made me feel so much like screaming. _My people need help!_

_Yes, but it is_ your_ duty to die for them. Not his. You have forced him into this. Of course he is rude. He is bound against his will._

I dropped to my knees at the water's edge, stabbed al-Rashid's sword point-down in the sand, and began, jerkily, to splash my face with water. "Enough," I muttered out loud. "It is done. I cannot undo it."

A tiny, wriggling thought wormed its way back to the surface of my mind anyway. _Cannot? _it asked. _Or will not, because you are too afraid of doing this alone?_

I growled wordlessly and poured a double handful of water over my head.

Then I nearly shrieked. The water was cool, and should have been refreshing, but it did not seem to be aware of what it _should _have been like. Instead, where it trickled through my matted hair and touched the back of my scalp, it stung like cold fire, which was nonsensical but, nevertheless, exactly what it felt like.

I took a wavering breath. _I am the blood of al-Rashid, _I reminded myself. _The cut has to be cleaned, and my hair is most likely a complete disgrace. Come. I can do this._

I was only glad that it was too dark to see my reflection. I had, I decided, truly made a spectacle of myself this night. Not only had I accosted a strange man in a particularly indecent, but I had done so while looking…well, while looking like a half-mad sand witch

I shook my head and bent to my cleaning. What was done was done. I could not undo it, and therefore would be a fool to dwell on it.

The less said of the cleaning, the better. Suffice it to say that my scalp was throbbing anew by the time I was done, and I thought I felt the heat of fresh blood trickling down the back of my neck along with the water. Whatever the laertis – _asabi, _I thought, _he called them asabi – _had done, it had obviously broken the skin, though a ginger prodding did not seem to reveal a broken skull.

I splashed more water through my hair, and hoped that that would be enough. Then, wearily, I began to scrub my face clean again, because I thought I must have gotten more blood on it, with all of that clotted stuff which had come free of my hair.

There was a beam of moonlight falling across the water. The ripples pulled it this way and that, so that it seemed on the verge of breaking apart and scattering to the far corners of the oasis.

_Like my people, _I thought dully. _Except that I cannot even see where _they _have gone._

It was very frustrating. I knew that I should not dwell on thoughts of things I was in no position to change, but the harder I tried not to think about it, the harder it became _not _to think about it.

Worst of all were the thoughts of Zebah. Those were vague, half-formed fears of what might be happening to my little sister, and were all the more terrifying for the lack of _knowing. _I did not know what these Zhentarim might to do her, and in the absence of any certainty came a whole host of uncertain but gut-clenching images.

I bit my lip so hard that I tasted blood. _Warriors do not snivel, _I thought angrily. I had to be strong, for Zebah and our mother and all the others who needed me, but…it was hard. Very hard.

Water dripped down my face, the cool rivulets snaking their way past the warmer tears. I tasted salt, and splashed more water against my skin, blinking rapidly as it stung my swollen eyes.

_I want my uncle_. Hammad would know how to handle this, I was sure. _I want my brother._ Ali would comfort me, and gather his warriors, but if I returned to him now I would lose valuable time – and with it, lose all hope of finding those who had been lost.

_I want my mother. _But she was gone, too, and all I had was my life, a sword, and…

…and, well, I did not know what I had.

_I have a very peculiar, very powerful mage who would dearly love to kill me, _I concluded the thought, and grimaced. I mopped my dripping face with my sleeve, because it was all I had to dry my skin with. It would have to do.

I rose, shivering. The night had gone cold.

On my way back to the spire, I passed a half-collapsed tent. The central pole was still standing, though the camel hides were tattered and listing.

As I passed, I thought I saw a strange spark of light within the tent. It was green, like a witchlight.

In the same instant, I heard a _very _strange sound, barely more than a whisper, and felt something wrap around my ankle. I looked down, and was promptly confused.

_Spiderwebs? _ Experimentally, I tried to tug my foot away, but the webbing was very thick and sticky and had anchored me to the ground as effectively as a rope. _But there are no spiders here-_

Then, before I could understand the meaning of either the spark or the spiderweb, the tent flared up into a flame which shot the length of the central pole and made the entire thing collapse.

It might have fallen on me, had not some imperfection in the pole caused it to snap in half as it burned and fall the other way. As it was, it brushed very near to my robes, so close that it could have sent them up into flame had it fallen just a whisker closer to me.

On its way down, the pole sliced through the webbing that held me. The white filaments snapped, waving briefly in the night breeze before floating to the ground like ghosts.

I heard a soft step, and froze.

Behind me, a deep voice drawled in tones of studied boredom. "Fascinating," it said. It was rapidly growing familiar, that voice. "I had heard of the principle, of course, but never actually seen it in action."

I spun to see the outlander mage, standing just behind me with a fine halo of green fire outlining the fingers on his casually upraised hand. He stood quite calmly, for someone who had nearly just set me alight like a torch.

Al-Rashid's blade whipped out almost of its own accord, the gesture a panicked reflex. Its point came to settle in the center of the outlander's chest. "What are you doing?" I demanded shrilly.

He looked at the sword. Then he looked back up and arched a pitch-black eyebrow at me. "Why, testing the boundaries of your curse, of course," he replied blithely. Then he switched the subject, or so it seemed to me. "Who is this El Ma'ra of yours?" he asked abruptly.

The conversational tone in which he addressed me right after having tried to kill me and _while _having my sword's tip boring a hole in his robes was so utterly bizarrethat I found myself responding in kind. I could not help it. I just did not know how else to respond. "The spirit of this place," I stammered. "He…he inhabits the spire."

The outlander frowned thoughtfully. "Hmm. Some manner of primitive demigod, perhaps," he murmured. "Or a manifestation of the natural energies which has somehow gained a degree of sentience over the centuries. It is not unheard of." He shook his head and made an airy, dismissive gesture with his glowing hand. As quickly and softly as if he had just flicked water from his fingers, the witchlight winked out. "No matter. Whatever it is, it was quite careful to restrict me from causing you indirect as well as direct harm."

I blinked at him dumbly. "You mean-"

He smiled at me. His upper and lower canines showed, both as sharp as daggers. The lower were slightly longer, and gave his face a particularly feral aspect. "Alas, I cannot seem to drop anything heavy on you," he admitted candidly. "Nor can I set anything on fire and then throw it at you. Or collapse it on your pretty little head." He sighed heavily, and with mock tragedy. "Ah, well. I will just have to find another way to kill you."

I stared at him. I tensed the muscles in my swordarm, feeling the tip of al-Rashid's sword just begin to bite through cloth. It lent my nerves some steel. "I could kill you now," I stated with a bravado I did not feel.

He regarded me speculatively, his eyes half-lidded. A narrow gleam of gold shone from beneath his lashes. "Perhaps," he said coolly. His lips curled into a humorless smirk. "And then what will you do? Without me, you have no allies at all."

He was right. If I killed him, I would be alone again, and that would do no one any good, my tribe least of all.

He was right, and I could gladly have killed him for it, if only it would not have cursed my own mother and sisters to spirits-knew what fate. I, alone, did not have the resources to confront the Zhentarim. Only Kel-Garas's killer did, and I would be mad indeed if I lost his skills to my own temper.

After a moment's pause, I drew my sword away with a crisp, irritated snap of my wrist. "Damn you," I said. The words nearly crawled on my tongue, so unused was I to using any of Hammad's curses, but I said them anyway. They needed to be said. "Damn you."

His smirk widened. "Too late," he said softly. Then, as if my sword was of no moment, he turned away from me, clasping his hands behind his back. "I have thought about it," he added. "We will go to Tel Badir. My contact there – a corpulent and quite cunning D'Tarig woman by the name of Ghufran - may have some information on the local slaving routes. She does not trade in them herself, but she is an enterprising businesswoman. I am sure she will know of the likeliest market for a fresh shipment of Bedine flesh."

I stiffened in outrage. My sword swung out again, stopping this _half-orc _in mid-pace. "How dare you speak of my tribe in that fashion?" I snarled. "Keep a civil tongue in your head, _mage_."

He arched a sardonic eyebrow at me. His lips pulled back from his teeth, just slightly. "How else would you like me to speak of them?" he retorted.

My voice was flat. "Respectfully."

His response was swift. "Why?" he asked. "'Tis the truth. The slavers trade in flesh, and that is exactly what they will want of your people – if they do indeed have them. Will mouthing a few respectful platitudes help us find them any faster? No? Then why are you pestering me about irrelevancies?

I stared at him a moment longer. "You are a vile and unmannerly creature."

"Yes," he agreed softly. When he tilted his head, the moonlight caught his eyes in such a way that they acquired that green sheen again. "And yet I am all that you have."

Why would he not stop reminding me of that? I lowered my sword. "I think I hate you," I said bluntly. My mother would have torn her hair at my rudeness…but she was not here, was she? She was not here, and I did not much feel like mincing words. "No. I take that back. I _do _hate you."

The mage bared his teeth at me. "The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you."

I grimaced back. He did not seem impressed by _my _bared teeth, nor by al-Rashid's sword, and I found myself wishing that I had some means at my disposal to wipe that infuriating sneer from his face.

I turned away abruptly. "The lizard-man mentioned a place called Hlaunga," I said, as neutrally as I could, which meant that there was a terse edge to my voice that even I could hear. "Should we not go directly-"

His voice rose to an impatient growl, cutting me off in mid-sentence. "Directly _where_?"

I felt my eyes go very wide and my nostrils flare. I was grateful that the mage could not see my expression. It must have been particularly crazed. I hoped that madness was not contagious, though I was beginning to suspect that it was. Another two days in this wretched man's company, and I would be howling at the moon, I just knew it. "To Hlaunga," I said from between clenched teeth.

His voice was as bright as a knife's edge, and equally cutting. "Ah! Excellent!" he exclaimed heartily. "And do you know where Hlaunga is?"

My anger subsided a little. I frowned thoughtfully. "No, but I-"

He interrupted me again. _Again! _I could not believe it. "-you thought that Xanos, in his infinite wisdom, would know?" the great, hulking goat interjected with venomous sweetness. Then he snorted – also, I noticed in passing, a very goatish thing to do. "No. Normally, that would be a safe assumption, but 'tis not so in this case. From the sounds of it, it must be one of the created oases of the Zhentarim, but that does not tell us where it is, only _what _it is."

I spun back to him, crossing my arms over my chest. I did not sheathe al-Rashid's sword. It dangled from my fingers, held loosely in my grip. I noticed, with satisfaction, that the outlander's eyes flitted down to it and back. Hammad had trained me to notice such things, because an opponent's eyes would so often go to whatever he would have liked to strike – or was expecting to be struck by. It made me glad to think that perhaps this mage was not _quite _so sanguine as he would have liked me to believe. "Let me understand," I said flatly. "You are saying that you, in your _infinite wisdom_, do not know where Hlaunga is?"

His eyes widened with ire. "_You_ do not know how badly I would like to set your hair on fire right now," he growled.

I glared at him. "Hah!" I spat. "But you can do me no harm – remember?"

His reply was unreasonably calm. "Perhaps, perhaps not," he disagreed blandly, and flashed me an innocent smile. "It seems that the curse restrains me from doing anything to you with intent to harm," he explained. "That does not mean that I cannot find a way to convince myself that dying would be beneficial to you." He shrugged. "Do not worry," he added flippantly. "It will take some mental gymnastics to get there, but Xanos is more than up to the task."

I stared at him, now confused beyond all measure. "_Why_ are you telling me this?" I asked disbelievingly.

He gave me a smile that would have been, if not for the fangs and the malevolent glint in his eye, positively angelic. "Because I thought it would be chivalrous to offer fair warning before I killed you," he replied.

My eyes narrowed. My lip curled. "It is _stupid_ to offer fair warning," I retorted. "An enemy is an enemy. Kill them and be done with it, without all of this…" I gestured angrily with the tip of my sword, and saw with satisfaction that the outlander's eyes still followed it. "…this childish _posturing_."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Oh? Excellent. Xanos will have to bear that in mind," he drawled.

I was gritting my teeth again. If he kept this up, my molars would soon be ground to stubs. "How can you be so-"

"So what?"

I knew it was impolite, but the conniving son of a goat had goaded me beyond politeness. "So _arrogant_," I erupted. "So insufferable. So cruel-"

His smile was grim, and in no way reached his eyes. "Let us turn that around," he said abruptly. Pointedly ignoring my sword, he began to pace. "Instead of arrogant, let us call it…justifiably proud of my accomplishments, which common knowledge tells us no _half-orc _should be capable of," he said clinically. "Instead of insufferable, why not say that I am incensed at your lack of knowledge about what we are about to get into? Above all – cruel?" He turned to me, and pinned me with a glare. "No. _Realistic,_" he hissed, and the light in his eyes flared strangely. "Because it is reality which is cruel, my little Bedine princess. Not I."

Something in his expression made my indignation falter. "I know that," I said defensively.

He cut me off, which roused my indignation all over again. "No," he said bleakly. "I do not think that you do." He turned away, casting words back over his shoulder like spears. "We leave at first light," he said abruptly. "That is how you desert dwellers do things, correct?"

I stared at his broad back. His hands were clasped behind it, and the line of his shoulders was rigid. "Yes."

"Good. Then that is what we will do. In _silence, _if you please."

He strode away without waiting for a response. I watched him go.

As I went, I noticed that his robe was not long, nor was it heavy – more of an ornate, calf-length, sleeveless overmantle in red and purple, beneath which he wore a much plainer tunic and breeches. I noticed this because his robes swished about his calves as he walked, drawing my eye to the tops of his boots. They were heavy, and worn, and – more importantly – I thought that I saw the hilt of a dagger sticking out of one of them. It looked like a large dagger, and the fact that, through all of this, he had not once reached for it was not very reassuring. It meant that he was either waiting for a good opportunity to use it, or he felt that he did not even _need _it.

The outlander had taunted me, no doubt to instill some doubt in my mind as to whether I could rest easy around him, even cursed as he was. Hammad had done similar things when we sparred, countering my attempts to argue against the possibility of his pulling some outlandish maneuver by coming up with some even more outlandish reasons for why it might be possible for him to do just that.

Unfortunately, knowing what the mage was attempting to do did not stop it from working.

_What if he threw a dagger in the air just to see where it landed? _ The dagger could come down on my head, and El Ma'ra's curse would not protect me from accidents. Would it?

_What if he convinces himself that I will be captured by the Zhentarim, and it would be more merciful to kill me now, and quickly?_ That did not seem implausible, either. In fact, it seemed like exactly the sort of argument Hammad would have come up with – and, I was beginning to suspect, exactly the sort of thing this…this _beast _might try. He seemed even madder and wilier than my uncle had ever been, and _that_ was a thought more disturbing than all of the rest of them.

I sat very still in El Ma'ra's shadow, watching the mage. His eyes were closed, the eerie green-gold glow of his eyes dimmed for now. I could not tell whether he was asleep or merely brooding, and did not care to inquire.

When I thought I was getting sleepy, I pinched the sensitive skin between my thumb and forefinger to keep myself awake.

I did not want to risk closing my eyes. If I did, I feared that I might find a dagger in my back come morning.

It was a very, very long time 'till dawn.


	20. Chapter 20

20.

We set out at first light, with only a slight delay as the newest bane of my existence decided that she was obliged by Bedine custom to set her dead relatives on fire.

"It could not have been done at night, or it would have attracted predators," she argued, when I asked her just what in the Abyss she thought she was doing.

I twitched irritably. Her argument was eminently logical, and only reinforced my desire to stuff her headfirst into a barrel of ochre jelly extract and otyugh vomit, seal the thing, and then set it on fire. "If you take much longer," I snarled by way of reply, "We will still _be _here by nightfall."

The girl did not deign to respond. All of her attention seemed to be focused on her task. She had pressed a bundle of dried-out reeds into service as a makeshift torch, and it seemed that the thing would not light.

I listened, with great pleasure, to her hiss of annoyance when the tenth spark died out as instantaneously as the last nine had. She tried again. "I will do this," she insisted grimly. "And you will not tell me to leave my people as they lay, outlander," she added, her back to me. In the morning light, her robes looked tattered and stiffened with blood, though at least she had found the time to wash her hair. It hung down her back in waves, nearly indistinguishable in color from her robes. "I _will not_ leave him…leave _them_ for the vultures."

I snorted. "Why not? They are dead. They will not care."

She cast me a scowl over her shoulder. "You are an outlander," she said, in much the same tone as she might have said, _'You are a festering boil on the arse of humanity.' _To ensure that she left no stone of offense unturned, she added, "I do not expect you to know anything of honor, or dignity, or of…of _manners._" Then she turned back to her little exercise in futility.

I glared at her back. How _dare _she turn her back on Xanos? My breath seethed through my teeth. "Ah, yes, the obscure Bedine social niceties," I rasped. I took a step forward. "Perhaps you can resolve a point of confusion for me, my little Bedine princess. Tell me, is it customary to say thank you before or _after _you have threatened an innocent traveler at swordpoint?"

Her shoulders went stiff. I grinned. _Triumph. _"Silence, mage," she spat.

"Silence?" I retorted sweetly. "Oh, but we were getting along so well."

She ignored me. The verminous little cretin _ignored _me. Bah! I was wasting my breath speaking to her, anyway. It was obvious that she had nothing of relevance to say.

For lack of anything more productive to occupy me, I fell to pacing. Occasionally, I cast a glance at the girl to measure her progress. It was nonexistent, a fact which made me practically seethe with impatience. The sooner we left, the sooner we would find out where her tribe was, and the sooner I could be rid of both her and her curse. Why was she taking so damned long?

Drogan's voice insinuated itself into my awareness. _Ye could help her, y'know_, the old man's voice suggested mildly. _'Twould be easy enough for you to send the whole pile up in smoke, and then the both of ye could get out o' here all the quicker. How about it, lad?_

My lip curled. _I would rather choke to death on an ogre's unwashed left testicle, _I retorted silently. Sand hissed beneath my heel as I spun, turned, and paced back the other way.

_Suit yerself._ The voice went away indifferently. Then, after a moment, it came back. It sounded vaguely curious. _Yer left, or the ogre's left?_

_Oh, shut up._

When the girl failed on what I counted to be her seventy-first attempt to light the torch, my patience abruptly reached its end. "Oh, just stand _aside, _would you?" I snarled, and let a minute surge of power slip its leash.

Heat that roiled through my veins. I tried not to shudder. I had not had much opportunity to use my power as of late. I had been at loose ends, and had not met many challenges since I had left the Aoist encampment – unless you counted fending off bandits with a little fireworks display _challenging._

Now, the power was restless. It wanted out. I wanted to burn the whole miserable pyre down, to boil the lake to steam, to turn all of this endless sand into glass-

Relentlessly, I clamped down on the temptation. _No, _I snarled inwardly. _Light the torch, Xanos. No more._

The girl shrieked as her torch erupted with a tongue of green flame. Then, with unflattering haste, she flung it away. A moment after, she turned to shoot me a glare over her shoulder. "Stop it! I will not burn them with witchfire," she spat. "This is none of your business, mage. Stay out of it."

I snapped my fingers in comprehension. "Ah, yes! Now Xanos remembers," I exclaimed caustically. "Magic is evil." I held up my finger brightly, as if a sudden thought had struck. "And yet you seem quite willing to put it to use when it suits you – to whit, hexing a _sorcerer_ – not a mage, by the way, which would be better for your sensibilities, but a sorcerer tainted by magic all the way through to the _bone - _into helping you." I bared my teeth. "Strange," I remarked. "This Bedine honor of yours seems surprisingly elastic_. _That is not a property I normally associate with honor-"

She interrupted me impatiently. "I do what I must," she said curtly, and scooped enough sand over the torch to extinguish a bonfire. When she seemed satisfied that no _magic _remained to contaminate her with its touch, she excavated the torch and shook it free of sand. "And you will do the same, outlander."

I threw my hands in the air. "Oh, of course," I agreed scathingly. "After all, 'tis not as if I have a choice in the matter." I scowled. "You have seen to that."

A flush mantled her cheeks. "That is irrelevant," she snapped. "I am Bedine. My own honor is nothing next to my people's need, and the needs of my people outweigh the needs of a single outlander." On one of her next strikes, the spark lingered long enough to catch, and she threw me a triumphant smirk as the flame kindled. "There, do you see? I have done it."

I wondered if she would stop smirking if I tipped her into the pyre, or if she would stubbornly maintain the expression until it melted right off of her face. I would not put it past her. The girl was as proud and hard-headed as any of her kinsmen, and as prickly as a whole godsdamned _field _of cacti.

As soon as the pleasant thought of doing her in had tiptoed its way across my mind, I felt a squeezing in my temples. The curse must have been exerting itself to protect its creator – or perhaps I only imagined it. Either way, I was outraged all over again. "Very well. You are done. We are going," I announced, my voice rasping with the effort of not screaming the words.

Then I turned, glanced at the sun in the eastern sky, and strode southeast, towards Tel Badir.

I did not check to see if my diminutive malefactor was following. She would, I was sure. She had no choice, the same as I.

_Hah! _I thought bleakly._ And what pitiful consolation that is_. It was something, though. It must have rankled her, I was sure. Forced to barter with her gods for the services of some abominable half-orcish _mage_ – and an outsider to her clan, to boot! Hah! No doubt she was gnawing her liver in distress over this entire situation.

_We can only hope, _I thought bleakly. Else I was trapped in this role for nothing – not even for the satisfaction of making my captor squirm.

_Well, Xanos_, my own voice counseled me, with unusual presence of mind and a refreshing absence of vitriol. _If you are trapped, you will simply have to do your utmost to become _un_trapped. There is nothing else for it._

To that end, I lengthened my stride. The sooner we discovered where this horrible little menace's tribe had vanished to, the sooner she could go menace someone else.

After a brief pause, during which the little screech-owl was likely rediscovering how to walk after having overstuffed her tiny head with the complex maneuvers required to light torches and persuade a pile of by-now overripe corpses to catch, I heard the sound of footsteps hurrying after me, at speed. They were punctuated, I thought, by a high-pitched snarl of frustration. I smiled.

Walking through the desert was an embuggerance only matched by, from what I had seen of it, riding camel-back. Ghufran, damn her half-breed hide, had neglected to offer me a camel before sending me forth from Tel Badir to do her bidding. Granted, my weight might have snapped its back in two, but it was the principle of the thing.

_What a miserable place this is, _I thought glumly_. I would say that the gods have forgotten it, but nothing ever becomes this foul without divine intervention. _It was only morning, but it was already beastly hot, and the sun and sand lent me a taste of what it must be like to be a sword blank caught between the hammer and the anvil.

Occasionally, I glanced over my shoulder to see the little Bedine struggling after me. She had appropriated two asabi spears and a pack of supplies from somewhere. Her burden must have been heavy, or perhaps she was simply having trouble matching my stride, because her face was flushed all the way up to her hairline, and her eyes appeared to be very large indeed. They were practically glowing with outrage – no doubt the better to burn holes in my back.

_Ahh. _The sight of her warmed the cockles of my cold, black heart. I smirked, found my stride, and walked on, listening to the sound of distant panting.

After some time, I paused to get my bearings. This place was one vast, featureless mire of sand and dunes and sun-blasted earth and _sand_, and the sun had treacherously changed its position on me.

Not for the first time, I wished that I still had that _bloody _priestess about. Not because I missed her companionship, of course – I just missed her sense of direction. For someone who was normally so inebriated that she had had a hard time telling her arse from her elbow, she had had an uncanny knack for telling north from south.

I looked out over the wastes, wondering which way lay Tel Badir. I hoped that I had not lost it. That would be a tremendous pain in the arse.

I looked out over the wastes, and I listened to the running footsteps for exactly three seconds before their significance hit me.

Then I turned just in time to catch a black-robed bundle of fury right in the sternum.

We hit the ground with a force that obliged me to revise my estimate of her weight upwards by one stone. Possibly two. It was as if one normal woman had been compressed to half her volume without reducing any of her weight, so that what remained had roughly the same density as lead.

I blinked, trying to clear the spots from my eyes. _Damned trebuchet crew must be at it again, _I mused, somewhat incoherently. It felt like all of the breath had been blasted from my lungs on impact.

A rapidly-growing-familiar pair of brown eyes glared down the length of a scimitar at me. "You have terrible balance," the Bedine madwoman observed critically, taking what I deemed to be very unfair advantage of my stunned silence. "And you walk too fast. You must slow down."

Some of my breath came back. My nostrils flared. "Why, you little-"

A deep scowl slashed across her face. She was very flushed, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. "It is the act of a fool to waste so much of his energy to cross the open desert too quickly," she persisted, ignoring my outburst. "You will exhaust yourself, and then you will become too dehydrated to go on, and then the blood will thicken and boil in your veins, and you will die screaming."

I rolled my eyes. "Promises, promises," I sighed.

Her lip curled a little further. "I would gladly promise to kill you," she said tightly, "But not until _after _we have found-"

I interrupted her impatiently. "-your people, yes, yes, I know," I dismissed her words wearily. "Come now. Your threats were insipid enough the first time, and have not improved with repetition. Can you not come up with something a little more inventive?"

"Certainly," the little cur replied promptly. "If you do not walk more slowly, I will nail your feet to the ground with these," she said, and pointed to the spears on her back with her free hand, "-and then I will chop your hands off, and then I will go back to the oasis, chop off that asabi's finger, place it in your mouth, and wait for the vultures to pluck out your cursed tongue along with the rotting meat. Afterwards, you will not be able to walk very fast, because you will have holes in your feet, and you will not be able to speak your vile insults to me without a tongue, which will make _my _temper all the fairer."

It was, I decided, the fact that she appeared so smalland round-cheeked and innocent that made her words so disturbing. Had the same threats come from an Uthgardt barbarianess, I would have been able to dismiss them out of hand. This…_this _was like being menaced by an angry chipmunk. "You are quite mad," I said at last. It was the only possible explanation.

She gave me a thin smile. "Then perhaps you should not anger me."

I gave her a bare-toothed snarl. "Perhaps _you_ should not anger _me._"

"Perhaps _you _should walk more slowly. Idiot."

"Perhaps _you _should get the Hells off of me, else I will not be able to walk at all. Fool."

She blinked. "Wha-" she began to echo blankly. Then she looked down. For the first time, she appeared to realize just where she was sitting. Her face blanched, and then, to my delight, turned all colors of the sunset. "Oh, gods. Not again," she choked out, and nearly fell over in her scramble to get away from me. I might have been offended, had her horror it not been entirely expected and no doubt even more uncomfortable for her than it was for me. "Oh, _gods_."

The fearless chipmunk of mere moments before appeared to have been replaced by a mouse. A very red-faced mouse who seemed to be very interested in the ground at her feet. If not for the cuts and bruises she had already given me, and the arsenal with which she was currently bristling, I might have mistaken her for someone without a spine.

I rose. The girl seemed to be averting her eyes desperately. No matter. That was a natural reaction of any human to my proximity, no doubt. I had had a lifetime to get used to it. "Go, then," I said with biting pleasantness. I swept my hand in front of me. "Lead on, little princess. Xanos will follow."

She gulped. "Y-yes," she stammered. She raised her eyes, looking into the distance at some point beyond my shoulder and clutching her sword's hilt as if it were a lifeline. "Good. Very well. That is-" She trailed off and made a vague gesture. "Come," she said abruptly, and stomped off over the sand.

I trailed after, my eyes on her back. The fool had not realized that her position allowed me to keep my eye on her – and did not allow her to keep an eye on _me_.

I smiled, and followed, as quiet as a mouse. I had learned the art of patience from a dwarf. Opportunity would come, I was sure.

All I had to do was wait.


	21. Chapter 21

21.

I did not like Tel Badir. There were people _everywhere, _and the din was unbearable.

The noise should not have bothered me. I was used to noise. Always, in my oasis, had I heard the murmur of voices and the rustle of robes as my people went about their business. Swords rang, buckets splashed, women hummed, men laughed, camels grunted, goats brayed, and dogs barked, all of it rising on the clear air like a song.

This, though, was not my oasis. This was Tel Badir, a merchant's conclave at the end of the world, or so it seemed to me – and it was a terrible, confusing place, where bellows and raucous laughter and pitched arguments filled the air like smoke.

To make things worse, there must have been a thousand people or more crawling all over the place, and just as many potential threats. I could not even begin to take it all in, no matter how hard I tried.

I did not like it. I especially did not like it now that people were turning to look. At me. Quite rudely, in fact. Did some of them laugh? Was some of their chatter about me? Were they mocking my clothes, or my plumpness, or my hair - I had brushed it, I knew I had, but perhaps the wind had disarrayed it too much - or was it the sword belted around my waist that they found so ridiculous? Or was it just that I was Bedine, and most of them were not?

A figure loomed up next to me. I shrieked, and reached for my sword, my heart leaping into my throat.

A pale faced man with one burning blue eye smiled at me from the other side of my scimitar. He was missing the other eye, the socket shriveled and the lid stretched across the empty hole. "In need of a new scabbard, m'lady?" he asked unctuously, and showed me some scrap of tooled leather that spun back across his palm and up his sleeve before I could catch more than a glimpse of it. My bared blade did not seem to worry him overmuch. "Fine Sembian leather, white buckskin, very prized, tooled by the deftest hands, keep your blade so keen it can slice the spots from a butterfly's wing, what of it, dear lady? For a smile from those lovely eyes, I would even give it to you for a song-"

I stared at him. The tip of al-Rashid's sword drooped. I thought it must have been as discombobulated as I was. My tongue seemed to have gotten stuck to the roof of my mouth.

A shadow abruptly blocked out the sun. "Ply your trade elsewhere, charlatan," rumbled a familiar, sneering voice. "The girl has no coin to spare."

The man's eye narrowed. "You should choose your words more carefully, mage," he said, and he said it pleasantly enough, though he smiled very thinly and drew his cloak around him very coldly. "This desert is unfriendly to your kind."

I heard a snort from somewhere above my head. "Not as unfriendly as Xanos is to yours," my outlander retorted. "Begone, fool."

The stranger left without another word, and I turned to find my eyes level with a broad expanse of heavily embroidered fabric.

I looked up. Then I blinked, and stepped back hurriedly. The distance did not seem to make much of a difference. Even a pace or two away, I _still _had to crane my neck to look up at him. "Why did you speak to him that way?" I demanded crossly. I was flushing again. He had taken me by surprise. That was bad – I could not allow myself to be so distracted that he might sneak up on me. There was no telling what cunning ploy the lout might come up with next, to rid himself of his curse. "It was very rude of you."

He glowered down at me. "I am so humbly sorry," he said, in a snide sort of way that said he was not sorry _at all_. "I thought I was damned to help you and do you no harm. Would you have preferred that I allow him to cut your purse and steal all of your coin?"

"What? Why? Why would he do tha-" I broke off my words and stepped to one side to avoid a…a _person_ with pointed ears and impossibly blue hair. She did not look down, or acknowledge me in any way, though she did float past me as lightly and gracefully as a falling leaf. She was ridiculously, exquisitely slender. I stared after her for several moments before I realized that I was standing up straighter and trying to suck in my stomach. Scowling ferociously, I spun back to the sorcerer. "What was _she_?" I demanded shrilly, pointing after the creature.

The outlander mage glanced after the lady very briefly. "An elf," he replied. Then he smirked. "But I think you are mistaken about his gender."

I frowned blankly. "What? You mean…" I turned to stare after the _elf. _"_That_ is a male?" I asked incredulously. At the outlander's snickering nod, I spluttered. "But…but he is prettier than I am!" I objected. My eyes narrowed. "And why are you laughing at me?" I demanded hotly.

The outlander's smirk turned into a grin. "Because I know something you do not know," he said tauntingly.

I gritted my teeth. "_What_?"

"Elves have very sharp ears. He can still hear you."

It took a moment for what he had said to settle in. Once it had, my lips formed an 'O' of shocked comprehension. "Oh, spirits," I squeaked, and glanced towards the elf again. He had stopped some distance away, and stood with his head cocked. His sparse eyebrows were upraised in a bland expression which I could not read but was probably not indicative of approval.

Heat suffused my face. "Hell's Bells," I gurgled. Was it possible to die of mortification? "Oh, gods, no, I…I am s-sorry!" I called after the elf, who sniffed dismissively, turned away, and walked on without looking back. I squirmed. "T-truly! I-" I shot the outlander mage a glare. "Will you _stop _laughing at me?!" I hissed.

His grin widened, showing teeth. "No," he said pleasantly. "As a matter of fact, I – _Hells!"_

I backed away, his enraged bellow ringing in my ears, and tried to shake the stinging out of my foot. "Your shin is very hard," I observed. "Do all half-orcs have such hard bones, or is this more a trait of sorcerers?"

He stared at me for a long moment, speechless. He was, I saw, leaning slightly to one side, no doubt to take some weight off of his leg. I only hoped that it was aching as badly as my toes. "You were not spanked nearly often enough as a child," he snarled eventually.

I glared back at him. "No, but I was switched regularly for doing the same exact thing to my brothers when they laughed at me, and that did not stop me," I retorted. "So if you think to intimidate me-"

"I? Intimidate you? Perish the thought."

"Good."

"I would just like to drop-kick you off of a cliff, that is all. There will be no intimidation involved."

We glared at each other. For a moment, I nearly forgot the bustle and jostle that was going on all around me. I was too busy trying to match that _cursed _outlander, stare for yellow-eyed stare. I _would not _look away. I would not let him win. I would, I decided, rather eat old al-Rashid's sword than allow such a thing.

My eyes had begun to water just before I saw him blink and look away, scowling. "Idiocy," he muttered. I was not certain if the comment was just for himself, or for my benefit, as well. "Come," he said abruptly, and suited words to action, striding off towards a gap in the crowd. "Enough of this," he called over his shoulder. "If Ghufran does not have answers enough to rid me of you, I will carve them from her pudgy hide."

I was not certain whether or not I had gained something by winning our staring contest. I thought that I had, but now I was not so certain. In hindsight, it seemed so childish, but…

_He started it, _I thought darkly, and stalked after him, my hand on the hilt of my sword. _Hmph. Insufferable son of a goat._

We walked along a line of stalls, their awnings smudged with smoke and dirt. Men jostled one another beneath them, and women – women! – shoved their way through the ranks of howling buyers as if unconcerned by brushing shoulders with so many strange men. It was mind-boggling.

Many of the people looked at me very strangely. I still did not know why. Was staring simply normal, among outlanders and D'Tarig? I flushed darkly at their stares, and I found myself hunching my shoulders and looking to the ground to avoid the eyes which fell so uncomfortably on me. It was foolish, I knew – what if there was an enemy among this seething crowd? – but I could not seem to help it. Whenever I met the gaze of some stranger, my own eyes skittered away of their own accord, like a pair of frightened mice.

_There are other women here who are armed, _I tried to console myself. _'Tis not so strange, not here. _But I could still feel the stares prickling against the back of my neck, and it made my forehead bead with nervous sweat.

It was with some relief that I saw the outlander mage turn sharply and duck into a pavilion that seemed slightly larger and cleaner than the rest.

It was with less relief that I followed him to find two men aiming crossbows at me.

I froze. I had my hand on my sword's hilt still, but this did not seem to impress the men. I tried to calculate how long it would take me to unsheathe my sword and kill both of them before they had the time to shoot me. No matter how I looked at it, the answer came out as 'far too long'.

Ahead of me, the sorcerer stopped and glowered impatiently at a third crossbowmen, who was holding him at bay. "Get that bloody thing out of my face before I make you wear your arse as a hat, you fool," the mage snapped, and shouldered past the guard without looking back to see if he was obeyed.

On the far side of the tent, a face as round and sallow as the moon looked up and smiled. It belonged to a very fat D'Tarig woman, who lay sprawled and glittering, on a low couch that seemed as if it could barely support her weight.

"Ah, Xanos!" the woman greeted the mage, quite calmly. "Come in, come in. Lay down your arms, boys," she added, gesturing to her crossbowmen with a plump, heavily berringed hand. "He's not to be shot." Her smile went crooked and dark. "Not for now, anyway."

The outlander mage crossed the narrow space of the tent in a few easy strides, his robes swirling about his calves. He was grinning. "Ghufran, you corpulent little slug!" he called, spreading his hands wide in a mocking bow. "How kind of you not to kill me. Are we feeling charitable today?"

"Xanos, you overgrown goblin," the fat woman replied archly. She raised her thin eyebrows, which looked as if they had been painted on. "I'd say that it's a pleasure to see your face again, but I'm afraid I'd be lying."

The outlander snorted. Without waiting for an invitation, he flung himself into one of the chairs that stood opposite the woman's couch. "Since when is a merchant of your stature afraid of lying?" he drawled.

She raised one monstrous, silk-clad shoulder in a shrug. "I strive for honesty," she said blandly.

He snorted. "Strive harder," he said bluntly. "You failed."

"Oh? How so?"

"You told me that I would find your missing shipments out there."

"So I did, and so I believed. Why? Did you find something of a different nature?"

The sorcerer leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. "You might say that," he said grimly.

The woman stilled. Her eyes glittered like dark, polished beads in the too-broad expanse of her face. "Is that so?" she asked in a tone of voice so blank and smooth that water would have flowed off of it without leaving a single drop behind.

The outlander's voice was almost as uninformative. "Yes."

"I see." The woman's eyes shifted to the men behind us. "Leave us," she ordered, and smiled so that the apples of her cheeks nearly swallowed up her eyes. "Don't worry, dear boys. He won't kill me. I haven't paid him yet." She waved a languid hand at me. "Is this child with you?" she asked the mage as her men filed out through the tent flap.

My outlander grunted. "Unfortunately," he said sourly.

"Intriguing," the woman said in smirking delight. She had, I decided, far too many chins. She looked as if a flight of stairs led all the way from her bosom to her lips. "And you haven't crushed her bones and sucked the marrow from them yet? You are a disgrace to your orcish heritage, Xanos."

He grimaced. "Do not think I have not been tempted." I shot him a glare, but said nothing. It would not have been appropriate to argue in front of that...that _thing_ on the couch.

"Hah! Well, come in, come in, young lady," the woman startled me with her hearty exhortation. She beckoned, the gems encrusting her many rings making motes of light dance on the walls of her tent. "Don't hover on my threshold like a bird of ill omen, eh? Come in, have a seat." She snapped her fingers, and a much thinner woman, her face and hair swathed in a sheer scarf of purple silk, stepped forward with a cut glass bottle full of some ruby-colored liquid. "Might I offer either of you a drink?"

The sorcerer narrowed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "No," he said bluntly.

This Ghufran's face crinkled in a laugh. "Hah! Now I recall why I offered you this job."

The sorcerer raised his eyebrows. A slight smirk curled his lip. "I thought it was because you saw me as a great asset."

"Close," the woman said benignly, lifting a cut-crystal glass to the light of her lanterns, seemingly admiring the way the ruby liquor sparkled within it. "You were only off by two letters."

I did not understand the quip, but it had the air of an insult – which was why it so shocked me when the outlander mage threw back his head and laughed. "Well played," he complimented the woman, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. He did not even seem offended! Who was this man, and what had he done with the enraged brute who had so earnestly expressed a desire to kill me? "I must remember that one."

The woman smiled sweetly at him over the rim of her glass. "Thank you, m'dear," she returned. Then she handed her glass to her waiting attendant. I thought my fingers must have tightened a little harder on my sword. This servitude! This decadence! Not even the wife of a sheikh could command it! This was softness, and indulgence, and all that was wrong about the world of outlanders. I wanted out of this place, desperately. I did not belong here at all. "No, I offered you this job because I saw a kindred spirit, to be true," the woman went on dryly, selecting a ripe fig from the bowl her servant held out to her. "You're nearly as rude as I am. I admire that."

"Ah!" The outlander held up a triumphant finger. "That was my second guess."

"No doubt." The woman finished her fig in one last, almost delicate bite, and pinned me with one dark, glittering eye. "Well, girl?" she asked me expectantly. "Don't just stand there." She turned her head. "What's wrong with her, Xanos?" she demanded tartly. "Did you bring me the only Bedine lackwit in the entire Anauroch?

My back stiffened. My tongue untied itself, for a moment. "I am no lackwit," I said tightly.

The woman's jowls reformed themselves into a grin. "A-ha!" she exclaimed. "She speaks." Then she waved another fig at me. "Sit, then, sit. Make yourself at home. Choose a chair or a cushion, it's all the same to me." She examined her fig closely, and then made a face and replaced it in the bowl. "Tell me, child," she went on conversationally, seeming absorbed in the task of selecting another, more palatable fig. "What is your name?"

My eyes flickered uncertainly the sorcerer – Xanos? Was that truly his name? – but found no help there. He sat there, stretched out in a chair that was too small for him, his arms crossed over his chest, and he looked back at me from beneath his lashes, his face an unreadable mask. I looked away from him, and folded my own arms over my chest, uneasy. "I will stand, thank you," I said stiffly. "And my name is Nadiya." I frowned at her. "Who are you to ask?"

"I?" she echoed, and chortled. "I am Ghufran, a modest trader of means, who dabbles in trifles and sundries." She inclined her head, near-doubling her chins in number. "Pleased to make your aquaintance, Nadiya. What brings you to my tent?"

Xanos stirred. "Is that what you call the black lotus trade?" he asked with bitingly amused skepticism. "A trifle?"

Ghufran smiled tranquilly. "A very profitable one," she agreed, and chuckled again, quite merrily. "Come now, Xanos. Do not tell me you disapprove. The demand is there, and the market will thrive with or without me. Ghufran has only stepped in to fill a niche."

The sorcerer shrugged his brawny shoulders, making the fabric of his robes tighten momentarily across them in a way that made me fear for the seams. "No," he said frankly. "If a few fools wish to cremate their brains in lotus smoke, far be it from me to deny them - or to deny you your hard-earned profits."

"Indeed," Ghufran agreed, and popped a grape in her mouth. "In any case, I provide a high quality product," she went on after a brief pause to spit out the seeds on her carpet, which was richly dyed and looked as if it had taken years to weave. Her servant scuttled forward to clean them up. "No point in cutting it with inferior leaf if that'll bring your clients to meet their gods all the sooner, eh?"

"Justify it however you may. The ways in which the weak-willed dispose of their money is of little interest to Xanos."

The woman raised her painted eyebrows. "Which is fortunate for us both, I'll wager, else I might actually have a real rival in the trade."

"Unlikely."

"Was that modesty, Xanos?"

"No. It was apathy. You enjoy the game of mercantilism for its own sake. I do not."

"Not even as an intellectual exercise?"

"Not particularly, no."

The woman cocked her head at him, a curious smile playing about her lips. I did not think it reached her eyes. "Ah, well," she sighed. "I see that you are no longer in the mood to play." Then, so suddenly that I blinked, her voice shed its indolence and went as sharp as a razor's edge. "To business, then," she said crisply, and waved her attendant away. "What happened to my shipments?"

The sorcerer lifted his head. His eyes narrowed. "No sign of them," he replied shortly. "But the oasis through which they were meant to pass through was massacred."

The woman arched her painted eyebrows. "Truly? What did you see there?"

"A pile of dead asabi alongside a handful of dead Bedine. It looked like the Bedine put up a fight, but were outnumbered."

"Do you know who killed them?".

"I have my suspicions."

"And a lone survivor in tow, I see. Don't look so disgruntled, Xanos. It was obvious enough. Why else would such a plump and pretty morsel be dogging at your heels?"

"Why else, indeed." The sorcerer's voice held a bitter note I could not read.

"Hah! Don't be such a sourpuss, m'dear. It'll give you wrinkles. So, the shipment's gone, and so are the Bedine who were on its path. You mentioned a few dead Bedine, but last word had it that at least half a tribe was camping there. Where'd they go? The Zhentarim take 'em? I'll bet that's what went on."

"You are far too intelligent for your own good, Ghufran."

"For my own good?" The fat woman laughed harshly. "Gods' blood, man, I'm a trader on the edge of nowhere and I've been dodging that bunch of Banite rats for the better part of two decades. If I weren't smart, I'd be dead." She drummed her nails on the arm of her divan. "Something here doesn't parse, though," she mused. "Why kidnap an entire tribe? What, the Black Network decided to solve their little Bedine problem once and for all by selling the entire population to their allies among the Tharchions?"

Xanos raised his eyebrows. "Doubtful," he said. "'Tis a long march from here to Thay, and Thay would not take them, anyway."

"Why not? They're damned fine warriors. I should know. They've troubled my caravans often enough."

"So are gnolls and Rashemani barbarians – and those are much closer to home. And cheaper to acquire."

"Maybe the Zhentarim decided they were better off getting rid of a few troublesome Bedine and were willing to write off the losses they'd incur from the long march east."

"Unlikely."

"How do you know?"

"Let us say that I was recently privy to the thoughts of one who knew a great deal about the Harper presence here. They have been very active in the Anauroch as of late."

"Hah! So the Zhents are being beleaguered by the Harpers' machinations, is that the word?" Ghufran groped for the decanter which her attendant had set down on a nearby table. Glass clinked as she refilled her cup. "Good."

"Beleaguered and in no state to take exceptional risks right now."

"Mmh." The D'Tarig woman sipped her drink thoughtfully. "Unless they're desperate."

"Or unless they see an opportunity which carries next to no risk and potentially great reward."

Ghufran subjected the sorcerer to a penetrating stare over the rim of her glass. "You're leading up to something, Xanos," she said bluntly. "Spit it out."

He paused. I thought that his eyes went to me, for a moment. "The Bedine who were camped at the oasis were women and children, for the most part," he replied simply.

The D'Tarig woman frowned. "And so completely useless to the Zhentarim," she said impatiently. "This isn't getting us very far, m'boy."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." This time, I was certain that he looked at me. I thought that perhaps he wanted me to say something, but I did not know what - and in any case, the moment passed too quickly for me to unsnarl my tongue. "One of the members of that tribe was a sorceress," he explained, his yellow eyes moving back to Ghufran without revealing what it was that had made him pause. "Young enough to have been able to hide her true nature from her own people so far, but old enough that she must have known that she could not have concealed it for much longer – which means that she is likely to be frightened, and biddable."

Ghufran frowned into her liquor. "Powerful, as well?" she asked quietly.

"I have no idea."

She chortled. "Fancy you admitting such a thing, Xanos," she said mockingly. "Are you feeling unwell?"

He bared his teeth at her. "Try not to get used to hearing it," he warned. "It will not happen again." Then he sat back, frowning. "I did not see the girl," he added abruptly. "There were…residual traces of magic, however. Some of the asabi had been burned by spellfire."

I jerked upright. "I did not see that," I blurted.

He shot me a scornful look. "Obviously not," he drawled. "But then, you did not know what you were looking for."

Ghufran leaned forward, which made her couch rock alarmingly and her silk-clad mass shift and slide like a collapsing dune. "How strong were the traces?" she asked intently.

Xanos shrugged. "Strong enough," he said easily. "But that could have been the work of whatever mage the Zhentarim put in charge of their asabi lackeys."

The D'Tarig laughed shortly. "Not likely," she said. "Burning your own allies is known to be a career-ending move in the syndicate."

"True. Then it is likely that the girl put up a fight." Xanos shifted in his chair and glanced at me again. "That...would only have sealed her fate, however."

"Oh, aye," Ghufran agreed blithely. "A Bedine sorceress, young and pliable and easy to turn – and there she was, right out in the open, with only women and old men to guard her. No doubt she made an irresistible target."

_Zebah, _I thought, painfully. I took an unthinking step forward. "But why would they want her?" I demanded. Tears prickled behind my eyes. I forced them back. Bedine warriors did not cry - especially not in front of D'Tarigs with far too many chins. "What do they plan to do to her?"

It was Ghufran who answered. "They plan to turn her to their use," she said calmly. "This sorceress knows your ways. If the Zhentarim can bring her over to their side, she'll be a potent weapon against the tribes."

I sucked in an outraged breath. "My sister would never do such a thing," I snapped. "_Never._"

The look of arrested cunning which entered Ghufran's eyes made me regret my outburst - but it was too late to take it back. "Your sister, eh?" she said mildly, and laughed. "O-ho! Now the picture comes a little clearer." She pursed her lips. "You seem like such a nice girl, and so fat old Ghufran takes no joy in breaking this news to you…but your sister won't be given a choice in the matter."

I felt faint. I would have liked something to hold on to, but I was afraid that if I did, it would only show the others how fearful I was. "What do you mean?"

"Does your sister love her people? Hmm?" Ghufran waited for my hesitant, wary nod before continuing. Her words came after me, each one more merciless than the last. "In that case, she'll get to watch them die, one by one, as the price for her disobedience – with her as the last to die, if she doesn't toe the Black Syndicate's line. The Zhents don't take kindly to being told 'no'. That's likely why the rest of your kin were taken along with her. They're insurance. I doubt a scared girl would resist very long if enough of her kin had their eyes put out, skin flayed, and guts unraveled right in front of her-"

The outlander shifted in his chair. "Enough," he said, cutting Ghufran off in mid-sentence. "A brief explanation would have sufficed to tell the girl what her sister faces. Belaboring the point accomplishes nothing of use."

Ghufran looked at him, startled. Then she laughed, a throaty, gurgling sound that held a sharp, delighted sort of amusement. "My, my," she murmured impishly. "Compassion, from the likes of you? Fetch me my hat, I think the heavens might be about to cave in." Still chuckling, she settled back on her divan, which creaked. "So, what's your part in all of this, Xanos?" she asked abruptly. "I sent you out to find my goods, and here you bring back a lost little duckling with a story of woe. It's an inventive way to finish a job, I'll give you that, but it doesn't help me much – not unless you were planning to sell her."

The sorcerer shot me a dour glance. "Believe me, if I could, I would," he said.

My eyes bulged. "How dare you!"

Ghufran made a placating gesture. "Oh, don't worry, child," she said soothingly. "I wouldn't buy you, anyway. Nothing against you personally, of course. I just don't involve myself in the flesh trade."

Xanos favored her with a sardonic glare. "So you do have some standards," he rumbled.

Ghufran shrugged indifferently. "Call them standards or call it prudence – it's the Black Road that controls that kind of commerce in this area, and my business already skirts too close to theirs as it is. If I stick my fingers in that pie, they'll come down on my head like a hammer."

"'Tis probably for the best." The half-orc's canines showed in a not-altogether-friendly grin. "You look as if you have had your fingers in a far too many pies as it is."

She smiled like a cat and patted her belly. "Hah! Well, at least I'm not starving. I tried that once, Xanos. I wouldn't like to do it again." Then she steepled her fingers across her ample bosom and gave him a long, measuring look. "But you still haven't explained why you think I should be getting involved in this."

He arched an eyebrow. "Your caravan vanished near this oasis," he answered. "You suspected Zhentarim involvement. Well, we have a name."

"Of a person, or a place?"

"A place. Hlaunga – most likely one of the created oases on the Black Road. One of the asabi, before he died, named it as his group's base of operations."

"How do you know that?"

My fingers closed on the back of the empty chair in front of Ghufran. "I spoke to it," I interrupted flatly. This was my tribe, my family, and I would not be left out of the discussion entirely. "My brother had opened its belly, before it killed him, and so it had not yet finished dying."

Ghufran arched an eyebrow at me. "So you have no way of knowing whether it spoke the truth."

My knuckles whitened. "It wanted a quick death," I said bluntly. "I promised it that in exchange for information." I thought I saw the sorcerer's head turn my way, but I dared not look away from the D'Tarig. All of the tales I had heard about their cunning and greed appeared to be true. Until we left her tent, I would mistrust her with every breath I took.

"Oh? And did you give it what it asked for?"

I found a smile somewhere. "I drove a spear through its throat. So, yes. I did."

Ghufran's answering look was measuring. "Is that so?" she murmured. "So you only _look _like a mouse."

I did not like her look. "I am no mouse," I grated. "And I will find where my people have gone and get my sister back from these Zhentarim dogs - with or without you." I had to. There was no one else to do it for me.

Ghufran turned a bemused look on the sorcerer. "Determined, isn't she?" she remarked mildly.

He rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

"Hah! So, what did she do to you to get you into this, Xanos? You don't strike me as a fool for hopeless causes – and if my goods have gone to Hlaunga, I might be better served writing them off."

His eyes blazed. "You sent me out there to find a lead," he snapped irritably. "I have found one. What you choose to do with it is your business-"

Ghufran raised a hand. The rubies adorning her fingers shone red as blood, and the topazes, as gold as the outlander's eyes. "Now, now, let's not be hasty," she said in conciliatory tones. She cocked her head, almost coyly. "I've a caravan leaving at first light tomorrow," she told Xanos. "How good are you at pretending to be a sellsword?"

He raised an eyebrow. "That depends on how much you plan to pay me," he said sweetly.

"I'll take that to mean you're willing. Good." She turned to me. "How about you, Nadiya-the-mouse?" she asked playfully.

I glanced uncertainly between them. My bravado deflated. "Um," I said. "W-what is a sellsword?"

"I'm going to take that to mean that you'd be very bad at it. All right – Xanos, she's your problem. Take her in hand, but if she gives away that you two are working for me-"

"Ah. Is it time for the threats already? And here we were getting along so well."

"Enjoy your flippancy, but I will not get entangled in an open dispute with the Zhentarim. Neither will I send my boys to retrieve what I've lost. You two, on the other hand-"

Xanos finished her sentence with a dark and unholy sort of glee. "-are expendable."

Ghufran smiled very brightly. "There, d'you see?" she said encouragingly. "We do understand each other, you and I." Then she laughed, and leaned back. "I'll tell you where to find the caravaners' camp," she promised. "I'll arrange for two of my guardsmen to vacate their posts. Show up tomorrow morning." Her fingers fluttered languidly, indicating both the outlander and myself impartially. "You'll be their replacements."

The outlander rubbed his chin. "Very well," he said slowly. "And then?"

"And then, I've a…well, I'm not certain what he is, to be truthful. I suppose you could call him a spy, though I don't know that he even knows what a spy is, and he couldn't keep a secret to save his life. Never shuts up, that one."

"So why do you keep him on?"

"Because he's got the best sense of direction of anyone I know, and he knows his way around the desert like few others do – and he can't blab any secrets I don't tell him. I'll have a word with him. He'll know that you need to get to Hlaunga, and no more. He'll guide you there. The rest is up to you. Find my steward, and he'll pay you half of the sum we agreed, as a token of my good faith. Find my goods and get them back to me and I'll pay you double. There'll be a bonus if you bring any of my boys back, though there's little hope of that. Oh, and Xanos-"

"Yes?"

Ghufran's smile was warm, and matronly, and left her eyes as cold as two chips of obsidian. "You won't be working for me," she said. "You say as much, I'll deny it, and my boys'll make sure to bring your heart to the Zhentarim as proof of my peaceable intent. Understood?"

He levered himself out of his chair, and tugged his mantle straight. "Quite," he returned pleasantly. Then he turned to me. "We are done here," he announced. "Come."

This, I decided, was not the time to kick him for issuing orders so imperiously. "Very well," I agreed, and followed in his wake.

Before I left, I hesitated. Then, because I could not do otherwise, not with our mother's instructions having been beaten into my very bones, I turned to Ghufran's bloated figure and bowed. "Thank you," I said stiffly. "For your assistance."

She smiled like the moon. "Ah, those exquisite Bedine manners," she remarked archly. Then she gave me a critical look. "You might want to abandon those once you reach Hlaunga, m'dear," she added.

I paused at the threshold. "Why is that?" I asked warily.

"Because they will reveal you for what you are as surely as those robes you wear - and that is an unwise thing to be when you are surrounded by Zhentarim agents. You will do your sister no favors by getting yourself captured and tortured alongside the rest of your kin." She waved a hand in clear dismissal. "Well, be off with you, and I wish you luck."

I nodded, and ducked for the tent flap. I did not trust myself to speak.

The D'Tarig woman's wry murmur followed me out. "You will need it."


	22. Chapter 22

22.

It took exactly thirty-nine seconds after leaving Ghufran's tent for the black-robed bane of my existence to find herself in trouble once again.

I knew. I had counted every last one of those seconds.

Thus it was that, when I heard a squeak of surprise, a yelp, and a pair of matched thumps, I only stopped and sighed.

I did not want to turn around. There were some instances in which ignorance could arguably be considered bliss. This, I decided, was one of them.

Besides, perhaps someone had just solved my little Bedine problem for me – by murdering her. Tymora had pissed on Xanos far more often than she had kissed him, but I chose, at that moment, to take the philosophical view: there was a first time for everything.

Hope kindled in my breast.

"Oh!" the unfortunately-still-living girl exclaimed. "Oh, I beg your pardon-"

Hope kindled. Then it burned down an orphanage.

Glumly, I turned.

There was a nut-brown young man sprawled in the dust at the Bedine girl's feet. I felt a pang of momentary sympathy for his plight. It was one which had grown quite familiar to me.

The sympathy lasted right up until the boy opened his mouth.

"Oh! Never fear! No harm done!" the young man said happily, and struggled to his feet with a singular lack of grace. The boy really was nearly all of one color, as if he had been dipped in a vat of nut-brown dye, or perhaps carved out of a single piece of hickory. He also had yet to lose most of his baby fat, and he wore an expression of near-terminal goodwill. "I heal quickly, y'know," he added with sickening joviality. "The broken bones will be right enough in a day or two, don't worry!"

The girl had a damnably expressive face, and those big brown eyes of hers reflected her every thought so clearly that she might as well just have written it on a sign and held the sign above her head for all to see.

This time, her face read, 'I feel a profound guilt and mortification for knocking you flat on your arse, a guilt which I have never felt in all the times I have tried to decapitate, disembowel, or otherwise inconvenience poor Xanos over there, who does not deserve any of this and has shown near-infinite patience for which he should most likely be commended, possibly with a small but tastefully expensive medal'. More or less. Under the circumstances, I believed that I was owed a few liberties with the translation.

The girl gasped in dismay. "Broken bones?" she exclaimed, her eyes nearly starting from their sockets and falling in the young man's lap. "Oh, spirits! Are you hurt? I apologize, truly, I did not mean-"

The boy seemed to notice her remorse, as well, which was a fine feat of observation for an apparent idiot. "Oh, no, no! No frowning!" he protested, waving his hand wildly. "That was a joke! Really. Oh, dear. Am I doing this wrong? Only you've gone very red, and that doesn't normally happen when I speak to new people – well, maybe it does, except mostly they turn red because they've become very angry, for some reason, though do you know that I've never been able to figure out why? Perhaps I'm just very unlucky and I always meet angry people? You aren't angry, are you? It would be terrible if you were angry at me, especially seeing as you seemed so nice – well, aside from the running-into-me bit, but that was an accident, I'm absolutely sure, happens to _me _all of the time as a matter of fact, last time it was a cliff and I must say, no matter what they tell you, sandstone isn't soft _at all_-"

I tuned out the chatter and focused on the boy's hands. _Fascinating. _The girl obviously had a knack for attracting these types. Perhaps it was her look of doe-eyed innocence which did it. Sword or no sword, something about her said that she had never seen the outside of a nursery.

Grimly, I advanced.

The girl's expression had gone slightly nonplussed. Um," she said. She backed away a step. "I…perhaps I should…I should go-"

"Yes," I agreed. "You should." I stepped between the nut-brown boy and the Bedine girl. "Cyric's Balls, girl, do you have, 'Please rob me.' painted on your forehead, and I just have yet to notice it? Do you not recognize a thief when you see one?"

The boy – or man, but he was so very round-cheeked and mop-haired that I found it impossible to tell his age – blinked rapidly in startlement. "A thief? What, her? Well, no, she doesn't seem-" he babbled blankly. Then his face cleared. "Oh! You must mean me!" he exclaimed, as if delighted to have figured it out. Then his lower lip thrust out in a slight pout. "Why, I am nothing of the sort! The very idea!" he said huffily.

I regarded him with something approaching benevolence. He was taking me for a fool. The opportunity to disprove his assumption filled my heart with a joy I had seldom felt during the past, oh, three months. Granted, I had spent two of those months rotting and insensate beneath a pile of rubble, so perhaps those did not count – but a month was still a very long time to go without decent entertainment. "Ah? So what are you, then?" I asked the boy, pleasantly.

The boy blinked. "Er," he said. "That is a good question. If you will give me just a few moments, I might even be able to answe – ulp!"

I reached out and lifted the boy up by his nut-brown collar. He dangled from my fist like a kitten from its mother's jaws. "You are a liar as well as a thief, I see," I observed conversationally. "Not that Xanos has anything against lying, mind you. But if you must lie, please – try not to be so incompetent at it."

The idiot girl crossed her arms and frowned at me. "How dare you? Put him down! He has done nothing wrong," she insisted angrily. "Besides, how do you know that he is a thief?"

"Because he has stolen your sword."

The girl blinked, and looked down at her hip reflexively. It was conspicuously bare of both belt and scabbard.

Realization struck her. It was easy to pinpoint the exact moment when it hit, because it was in that moment that the girl's face turned as red as a ripe cherry.

Her head shot up. Her eyes settled on the scabbard in the boy's hand. Then they began to blaze. "Why, you-" she began angrily.

The boy peered at her over my fist. "Oh, I say! What's all the fuss? I was only curious," he protested, radiating an aura of hurt reproach. "By the way, that's a very fine old sword you have there, did you know that?" he added brightly. "Well, I say 'you have there', but I suppose that at the moment I just happen to have it here, though of course I had every intention of giving it back, all I wanted to do was have a look at the fire agate in the pommel – lovely stone, by the way, I've not seen its like for ages and ages and ages, I'd love to know where you found it - anyway, I don't see why we can't all just get alo – ulp!"

I hoisted him up a little higher. Perhaps I should have let him keep the damned thing, but it was the principle of the thing. I did not like being lied to_. _"Give. It. Back," I instructed in a low growl.

He turned a thoughtful, nut-brown eye to me. "Er," he said. His fingers sprung open. The sword belt clattered to the ground. "Now, now," he added placatingly. "There's no need for tha-"

My hand sprung open, and the boy's words ended in another yelp. "You have thirty seconds to get out of my sight," I said bluntly. "At the thirty-first second, I will report you to the nearest guard." The guardsmen of Tel Badir were well-paid by the merchants' conclave to keep open murder and theft to a minimum, so that the merchants could keep their backstabbing and cheating to a maximum. Anyone who knew anything about the encampment knew as much. If this boy had not yet been apprised, he would learn soon enough. "Is that understood?"

The boy nodded, and took a wary half-step back, rubbing his throat. There were finger-shaped bruises forming on it. "Understood," he said hoarsely. "May I go?"

I extended a hand in mocking courtesy. "Please."

He went, without looking back. I watched him, frowning, until he had vanished into the crowd.

Something did not add up. By rights, the boy should have stunk of terror by the time I was done with him. Most people did. The reputation of my race preceded me. Those few individuals who did not empty their bowels when confronted with an angry half-orc were either supremely deranged or supremely confident – and the boy had not seemed either visibly insane or particularly cocky.

A sword-belt clicked shut. "You outlanders are very strange," the girl remarked critically. Absently, she shimmied the belt around her hips until it was settled, and adjusted the hang of her scabbard with practiced ease. "What manner of madman would even consider stealing another's sword? It would be like stealing someone's arm from their socket!" she went on in tones of purest outrage. "Hmph. The very notion!"

"You would do well to forget such prejudices, girl," I advised grimly.

She paused, and turned her head to eye me somewhat warily. "Why?"

Ah. It seemed that it was time for a harsh truth. Well, far be it from Xanos to lie. "Because, from now on, you are no longer Bedine."

She did not immediately begin frothing at the mouth at my words, which was surprising. Perhaps she had not understood them. "What?" she asked blankly. "Wh…of course I am! What kind of a statement is tha-"

I gritted my teeth. "A true one," I interrupted. My voice had risen. I lowered it, and leaned in towards the girl, so that she and she alone would hear me. "You are not Bedine," I hissed. "You cannot afford to be Bedine. If you would save your precious kin, you must forget that you were ever one of them – because your enemies will be on guard against exactly that. A Bedine rescuer for their Bedine captives."

The girl's mutable expression turned uneasy, but she did not argue with me – this time. Instead, she hugged her arms around her chest and looked…lost. "I…I think I see," she said faintly. She held the hilt of her battered old sword as if she was trying to draw the steel of its blade into her backbone. Strangely enough, this seemed to work. "But…how?" she wondered. Her forehead furrowed, and she squared her shoulders in a tremulous sort of determination. "W-what would I have to do?"

_Oh, at last! The woman speaks sense. _My hackles settled. "You might try dressing differently, to start with," I said gruffly. I cast about the crowd for a moment, searching…_a-ha!_ I pointed. "More like her, for instance." The woman had her back to me, and was wearing nondescript leathers, like most mercenaries in this region. I had seldom seen chain or plate on the local sellswords. No doubt the desert heat made metal armor an agony unsurpassed by most forms of torture which mortal minds had ever dreamt up – not that I would know. I had always found that a well-placed fireball was the best defense. "Pity we cannot change your coloring, but-" I realized that I had lost my audience's attention. "What?"

My nemesis took a long look at the leather-clad stranger. Then she folded her arms across her chest. "No," she said bluntly. Her face settled into a mulish expression. "I _will _not."

I was going to wring her neck, curse be damned. I was going to wring her like a rag - _gah! _The pressure of the curse closed on my head like a vise. It did _nothing _to improve my mood. "Do you even know the meaning of the word 'subterfuge'?" I snarled through clenched teeth.

"Of course I do!" she cried back. A wail of hysteria entered her voice, and she clutched the collar of her robe, pulling it close around her neck as if I had threatened to tear the thing from her body and parade her around the market a few times. "But…I cannot dress like one of them! I cannot!"

I stared at her. Of all the women in the world with whom I had _had _to be inflicted – of all the oases to walk into – of all the curses to be saddled with, _why _did it have to be this one? "What, exactly, is _wrong _with how she is dressed?" I rasped.

The girl's face flushed. "It is immodest," she said stiffly.

I looked back at the mercenary woman. She was covered from neck to toe in sturdy, utilitarian leather, and the blood was beginning to pound in my temples, and I thought I felt my eyelid twitching, and I wondered if this was what it felt like to have an aneurysm. "_That _is immodest?" I growled.

"Yes," the girl growled back. "You can see her-" She stopped, and wilted slightly. "Um. You know."

There were no walls in this place. That was the problem. What I needed now was a _wall. _A thick one. So that I could pound my head against it until I passed out, and then I would wake up to a happy world where obstinate young women did not refuse to accommodate some basic precautions for their own survival just because they were afraid that someone might see some mysterious body part which they could not even _name _without blushing. "No. I do not know," I said brightly. I was going to go as mad as my mother. I just knew it. And it would all be this little hellion's fault. "Wrists? Waistline? _Head?_"

The girl cleared her throat. "No. Her…her legs," she mumbled, and twined her fingers nervously in the neck of her robe.

I burst into laughter. "What, do you not have any?" I roared incredulously. "How is it that you move around, then? Are you a wizard in heavy disguise? Do you have a floating disc under there somewhere?"

She snapped upright, her dark eyes lighting with outrage. "Of course not!" she harrumphed. "I have perfectly good legs! But I cannot just-" She seemed to grope for the words, a blush creeping all the way around her neck to vanish beneath her hair. "-just _show_ them to people."

This conversation was idiotic beyond the power of words to express. It was also taking place far too much out in the open. Turning, I hustled her behind the nearest tent. "You will not be showing them to people," I said very sweetly and precisely, as if speaking to a child. "They will be covered in clothing."

She scowled stubbornly. "It is still indecent."

I threw my hands into the air. "Excellent!" I cried. "I am sure that the your enemies will be very impressed by your modesty – right before they have you drawn and quartered as a Bedine spy." I lowered my hands enough to clutch at my head. "God's Blood, woman, do you listen to _nothing _anyone tells you?" I rasped fervently.

She unfolded her arms, and then refolded them, frowning. "There must be another way," she insisted.

My temper disintegrated. "Yes," I snapped. "I am going to stuff you into a burlap sack. A dirty one. And then I am going to seal it shut and _carry_ you all the way to Hlaunga-"

She stiffened. "You would not dare," she snarled.

I smiled. "Try me," I retorted.

Then I spun on my heel and walked away before my head exploded and splattered the prissy little princess with gray matter.

_Then again, that might be beneficial to her, _I growled silently_. _Breathing heavily, I strode ahead without bothering to slow. Anger fueled my steps. A path opened up in front of me, people melting to the left and to the right as I approached. That was another advantage of an orcish heritage – the advantage of never having to say 'excuse me'._ She has nothing in her head but sand. Perhaps it would help her to see what a real brain looks like._

I was halfway across the settlement when I finally heard footsteps hurrying to catch up with me. "Where are we going?" a high-pitched voice demanded uneasily.

I did not look at her. The walk had calmed me slightly. If I looked at her, I would become furious all over again. "To the Hells in a handbasket," I replied.

"What?"

I snorted. "Nevermind," I muttered. Irritably, I twitched my robes away from a particularly ripe and towering pile of refuse. I tried not to inhale. "_I _am looking for supplies, and a place to stay the night." Arriving here had eaten up most of the day, and Ghufran's hospitality had eaten up most of the rest. The shadows were already lengthening. "_You_ may do what you wish."

The girl glanced around critically and shrugged. Her face had a pinched, uneasy look, and I noticed that she shrank away from any stranger who came too near her. The pack on her shoulder – was that camel hide? – bounced against her hip. "I need nothing," she said shortly.

I looked at her sideways. "Nothing?" I echoed.

"No. I have already taken what I needed from the dead." The girl's tone was heavy, and sullen with grief, and did not seem to invite further question or comment.

Xanos, however, did not need an invitation to express his opinion. "I thought that they were your kin," I scoffed.

She glared at me, quite sharply for such a moon-faced little thing. "I thought you said that they could be my kin no longer," she said sweetly. Then she shrugged again. "Besides," she added, very matter-of-factly. "They had no further use for it. I did."

"I…see." Though, to be honest, I did not. I did not see how this creature could be overcome with bloodlust in one moment, crippled by shyness in the next, and then, after all of that, demonstrate such...such damnable rationality. _And _throw my own words back in my teeth in the process.

_Thrice-damned, smart-mouthed little ninny_, I thought darkly, and strode on to the market.

I did not bother to negotiate for what I needed. That_ bloody_ priestess had left me with enough coin to tide me over for quite some time, anyway – though I hoped that no one had found the jewelry she had inexplicably filled my pockets with before leaving. They appeared quite valuable, and I would have had a hard time convincing anyone that I was carrying a fortune in jewelry just because I looked well in pearls.

I needed little enough from this place, anyway. The idiot woman had left me with enough supplies for _six_ adventurers. I did not know why – or perhaps I did.

_Wherever she was going – wherever that world of hers happens to be - she must thought she would not need any of this once she got there, _I thought, and stood at the stall of a quiet Oghmite monk, drumming my fingers on a stack of parchment and wondering why it was that everyone who had ever claimed to give a rat's arse for Xanos inevitably slipped away, in the end. Granted, there had never been that many of them. The head count, so far, came up to exactly three, and I was not even certain if I could count my mother among them. She had been well-disposed enough towards me, I supposed – when she was lucid, and not mistaking me for a flowerpot or a weathervane or some long-dead relative I had never met.

Then I shoved it all into the fires in the back of my mind, allowed the monk to charge me far too much for ink and parchment, and I turned away. Such maudlin thoughts served no purpose. I _had _a purpose. It was to help the one who held my leash, and do her no harm, until she had stolen her tribe back from the Zhentarim.

_Or slip her leash and send her to the Abyss, _I added silently. Either way, any goal was better than none.

There were camps on the perimeter of the town – if one might call it a town, rather than a loose conglomeration of tents, traders, and trash. There were firepits, latrines, and space enough to park wagons and pitch tents between them. Those who had not come with the caravans found space where they might, and slept on the ground, wrapped in blankets which were often threadbare.

A camel examined me with its nostrils as I passed. "Do not even think about it," I muttered, and shot it a warning glare. It snorted, and looked away loftily. One of its black-robed handlers said something, sharply, and slapped the beast's rump with a stick.

The little termagant spoke up from altogether too close behind me. For a girl who did not know the meaning of 'subterfuge', she moved altogether too quietly. She obviously did not like drawing attention to herself. "Who are _they_?" she asked softly.

I spared a glance for the object of her curiousity. "What an idiotic question," I snapped. "Can you not recognize Bedine when you see them?"

"Yes," she hissed back. She jerked her head towards them, a surprisingly surreptitious little motion for such a guileless girl. "But these men are not-" She faltered. "Look at their faces," she urged abruptly. "And their keffiyeh. They wear no markings."

_Bloody Hells. _How had I not noticed that? The girl was right, damn her. "Yes," I admitted grudgingly. "They must be exiles."

"Exiles." She said the word as if tasting it. From her tone, the taste must have been quite bitter. "Yes. That...that might work."

There was a clear space near the edge of the camp. The fire was dying. I revived it with a twist of thought and a lick of fire in my veins, and grinned humorlessly at the way the girl squeaked. "What might work?" I asked, and threw my own pack to the ground. "Joining with those exiles, instead?"

Her response was…unexpected. "Yes - in a way," she said simply. She looked at my fire as if it might bite. The low angle of the sun made her eyes look very dark, and the light of the fire reflected in them quite clearly. "'Tis said that exiles despise those who have cast them out, and think only of revenging themselves on their fellow Bedine. The Zhentarim will have no cause to suspect me, if they think I am one." Then she shrugged, and tried to smile, though it slid off her face in a particularly sickly way. "It is not so far from the truth, anyway."

I looked at her. "So you do know the meaning of subterfuge, after all," I observed mildly.

She sank down to the ground. Her face, it seemed to me, was very pale. "I am…learning," she said haltingly. She swiped her hair out of her eyes. Her voice fell to a whisper. "I must. I do what I must."

I watched her for a moment longer. She was shivering. "Good," I said at last. Then I bent, pulled out my blanket, sat, and wrapped myself comfortably in its folds. "Good night, princess."

She stared at me. She appeared to be having some trouble comprehending my actions. "It is cold," she said.

I assessed that statement for truth. "Yes," I agreed. I watched her shiver. I took a certain pleasure in the sight of her discomfort. My head still throbbed with the weight of the geas she had laid on me. "Do not tell me that you have no blanket," I scolded her mockingly. "I assumed you had looted it from some relative's corpse or another. Why? Was I wrong?"

I saw her flush. "I...did not think of that," she admitted reluctantly.

She had put together quite a pile of things. "What did you think of, then?"

Her answer was short. "Food and weapons."

Somehow I was not surprised. "A shame," I said. "Perhaps you should run around the camp a few times. That should get your body temperature up."

Her face darkened. She did not reply, only wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off the cold. If she hoped to evoke my sympathies, she was going to have to try harder. I had no such sympathies. I was doing enough for her - more than enough. I would not freeze for her, too.

I ignored her, and poked at the fire with a stick. It was unnecessary. I could have kept the thing lit for forty nights running with no more effort than it took to breathe. But at least it gave me something to do with my hands.

Eventually, the girl sighed and rummaged in her pack for something to eat – some kind of jerky, no doubt made from some part of a camel which she would blush to name. Like its feet. Or - gods forbid - its ankles.

She gnawed on the thing disconsolately, and eyed every passerby as if he might be a thief, or - even worse - an outlander. She did not try to make conversation. I did not encourage her.

The sun arced down the sky, sketching the horizon in ever-thinning streaks of light. Night fell, dark and cool.

On the other side of the fire, the girl heaved a sigh, laid down, and rolled herself into a ball, rather like an angry hedgehog. Pointedly, she turned her back to me.

After a time, her breathing evened out into sleep.

The girl was, I decided, altogether too trusting. She had cursed me to do her no harm, but those terms held a significant oversight:

She had not obliged me to prevent _others _from doing her harm. I did not think the geas would allow me to incite others to attack her - the pressure in my temples increased painfully at the mere thought. However, there were plenty of people in this place who might do any number of unpleasant things to her, given half the chance.

I stood. A slight relaxing of a few mental barriers – _there, _I thought, and sighed with relief – let the magic begin to pool and flow with my blood. Colors seemed to grow sharper, scents stronger, sensation deeper.

_This _was life. The rest was mere existence.

I let the heat flow to my hands and sheathe my fingers like molten glass.

Then I stooped and picked up a smoldering stick from the fire. The shielding around my hand shimmered, and absorbed the heat.

I had never learned the knack for building a ward without first drawing a circle. That was the only trouble with having magic in the blood rather than the head, so to speak - my blood seemed to want to burn. It felt no need to shelter.

The ember's point glowed against the sand, dragging out a rough circle.

I paused, the circle near-closed, and watched the girl. Her side rose and fell steadily. She was such a small thing. Amazing, really, that one could pack so much bloody-minded determination into such a small package. I would give her that. Granted, it was the only thing I would willingly give her, but I did feel a certain reluctant admiration for her drive to succeed at any cost. It was the only way to survive in a brutal, indifferent world.

Then I sighed and widened the circle to include her. She did not stir, even as the sand hissed near her nose. She was sleeping deeply, the flesh beneath her eyes puffy with exhaustion.

I closed the circle, and outspread my hands.

The rush of power felt like a crackle of fire beneath my skin. I had always wondered that others could not feel it, could not see the magic settling over the circle like so many fireflies.

The circle closed. The power faded, sinking back into my skin. The girl was still sleeping, huddling in on herself as if to gather the few shreds of warmth available to her.

Turning away, I left her to her chilly and fretful sleep.

Dawn came soon enough, though Tel Badir looked no better in the rosy light of dawn than it had at dusk.

The girl eventually deigned to wake. It was a fascinating process, not the least because of its rapidity.

One moment, she was snoring, a raspy, high-pitched noise like a jigsaw slicing through a table leg.

Then she uttered a hamster-like squeak of alarm and shot bolt upright.

"Hell's Bells!" she shouted. Then her face cleared. She looked at me. Emotions chased one another across her face, most of them negative. "Oh," she said then. "I did not dream that."

"No," I agreed. I sipped my coffee – a giftfrom Ghufran, and possibly more precious to me than a wheelbarrow full of gold – and studied the girl over the rim of my cup. I did not know what had happened to her hair while she had been sleeping, but whatever it was, it must have been spectacular. She looked as if she had been struck by lightning.

She stared at me blearily. "Did you even sleep?" she demanded crossly.

I decided to let her find out about her hair in her own time. No doubt the moment of discovery would be worth witnessing. I hid my grin in my mug. "Yes. Though not as much as you."

She blinked, and dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. Her eyes were still puffy, though not as much as they had been the night before. "What time is it?" she grumbled.

"Nearly time to leave."

She yelped and started to her feet. "And you did not wake me?"

"I reasoned that you would wake eventually. At least as soon as the first ox stepped on you."

"You-" Her jaws snapped shut on the word. Her throat worked for a moment, as she struggled for other, possibly more suitable words. "Is there wash water in this place?" she managed, eventually.

I pointed. Her head swung balefully, following my pointing finger. "_There?" _she yelped. Her face turned pink. "With all of those...those _men_?"

I grinned at her malevolently. "'Tis that, or nothing, little princess."

Her snarl was quite inarticulate. She sat down. Then, after what appeared to be a brief internal struggle, she stood. "I hate you outlanders," she gritted, and drew her sword. "You do _nothing _the proper way."

I watched her march off towards the well pump, sword in hand. Idly, I wondered what she would say when she saw the privy ditch.

Chuckling, I turned back to the fire. And froze.

A nut-brown boy smiled at me very brightly. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Ho there! What a stroke of luck! I thought I recognized you." Then he stuck out his hand. "Good morning! My name is Brown. Well - that's what they call me, anyway." His smile widened, showing teeth which were as blindingly white as the rest of him was tawny. "Ghufran sent me. I'm to be your guide. I say, won't that be fun?"


	23. Chapter 23

23.

The boy who had introduced himself as Brown lay sprawled at my feet, staring cross-eyed at the tip of al-Rashid's blade. "I say," he said indignantly. "The two of you really aren't all that friendly, are you?"

I flicked a fleck of ash from his collar. It was slightly singed. "You tried to steal my sword," I growled.

He sniffed, quite primly for a young man. "I did not!" he protested. "I was just looking at it."

Somewhere above and behind me, someone snorted. "Yes, yes," Xanos drawled in what would have been a bored tone, if not for the edge in it and the flicker of green fire which I still saw from the corner of my eye. "And I suppose you had it in your hand because you have very poor eyesight and could not see the sword clearly enough while it was still in her possession, hmm?"

"Er." The boy licked his lips nervously. He tried to smile. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

I was already learning the art of suspicion well enough to answer _that _for myself. "No."

"Oh. Blast." For someone who had been caught out in a lie, he seemed unaccountably cheery. "Well, you're quite right – 'tis truly not true. My eyesight is much better than either of yours." He smiled disarmingly. "No offense meant, of course. Mother always taught me to be respectful to the less-advantaged, you see. 'Tis only right-"

All of the blood rushed to my head. "Less-advantaged?" I shrieked.

To my surprise, I heard a deeper echo behind me, dripping with venom. _"Less-advantaged?" _the sorcerer snarled. "Hah! If 'tis a display of Xanos's superiority you wanted, boy, I would only be too glad-"

The boy made a small, placating gesture with one of the hands that he held above his head. "Now, now, don't be so hasty," he begged. Then, blithely, he added, "'Tis not your fault that you are what you are. No-one can help the way they're born, Mother always said-"

I was going to kill him. I was going to commit murder, in front of all of these outlanders who no doubt would take it as proof of my barbaric nature, and _I was not going to care. _"If you insult me one more time, I will have your head," I said between clenched teeth.

I heard a snort, and sensed a large shape loom up beside me. "A-ha! An excellent idea. I will hold him still for you," the outlander mage offered magnanimously.

For some reason, that only left me more enraged. "I do not need you to restrain my opponents for me," I spat at him. "I was trained in swordplay by my uncle Hammad-"

The boy cleared his throat tentatively. "Er, excuse me, m'lady, sir-"

The sorcerer sneered sideways at me. "O-ho! This explains a great deal," he said snidely. "What was your uncle? A goatherd? A cactus gardener? A professional camel-buggerer?"

I could not bear this indignity much further. Bad enough that I needed help – must it come with such insults? Was _this_ the price El Ma'ra had obliged me to pay? Annoyance enough to tear my hair out by the roots? "My uncle was a _sheikh_," I hissed. "As was my father, and his father, and all of my line back to the great al-Rashid – and _you, _outlander, have not half their worth, and will either speak of my uncle with respect or not at all! Do you understand me?"

Then, in the ringing silence that followed, I realized my mistake. _Exiles do not speak like this, and they are never the daughters of sheikhs, _I thought, and wondered if I might be able to die of embarrassment – and the half-scornful, half-smug smirk on the mage's face did not help. He knew that I had already fumbled my own lie, not a day into its inception, and he was _laughing _at me, and I could willingly have bloodied his nose just for that.

Brown burst into the silence like an unusually talkative tornado. "Really?" he asked eagerly. "Why, that's amazing, really fascinating, you know, I don't think I've ever even met a Bedine woman before. Plenty of men, of course, but you girls seem awfully shy of strangers – oh! Did you know that some of you still speak the old tongue? Bedine, I mean, not girls. 'Tis a corrupt version of old low Netherese dialect, really quite something, just a pity that none of you can remember how to write it. Now _that _would be something, to have an oral and written tradition to go by – you know how hard it is to piece the phonetics together after - oh! Oh! You know, I could probably teach you! Oh, that would be great fun-"

I ground my teeth. "No," I said stiffly. "It would not be great fun."

He cocked his head. "No?" he asked, all innocent curiousity. "Why not?"

"Because we have only just met and already I wish that you would stop talking!"

A woman's voice, low and hoarse, broke in. "Keep wishing," she said. A boot scraped, and a tall, yellow-skinned woman stepped up. She had her hands at her sides, and her weapon holstered in her belt, though this was small comfort, from the way she held herself. If she noticed that I had my sword to the boy's throat, she gave no sign of it – or perhaps she was confident that I was no true threat. Or perhaps – and this was a growing possibility – it was quite normal for her to find her companion at swordpoint, and so she thought nothing of it. "Brown," she said curtly. "Schaern wants you."

The woman was unlike any I had ever seen. She was tall, like Mother, but whip-thin, all sinew and bone, and she stood crookedly, one shoulder bunched higher than the other. Worn leather in shades of grey and black fit her spare figure like a second skin, though there was not much to show – she was as flat and hipless as a boy. A hook-headed axe hung at her belt, its shaft glassy-smooth and its blade so pitted that it was a wonder the iron had not already disintegrated.

Brown responded as one who knew the woman. He smiled up at her cheerfully. "Oh, hello, Ishiko!" he greeted her. "Schaern wants me, you say? For what? Has he lost his place on the map again?"

The woman called Ishiko shook her hair out of her strange, slanted eyes. It was short, coarse, and streaked iron-grey and raven-black. She was no longer young – the grey in her hair and the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes said as much. But the easy way in which she moved suggested that she was far from infirm. "Didn't say," she said shortly.

The boy sighed. "Oh, very well," he said, and waved away my sword with such blitheness that I found myself pulling it away, despite my better judgement. "These are our new friends, by the way," he added. After a few false starts, during which he could not seem to figure out where to place his hands to help himself to stand or how to govern his own knees, he clambered awkwardly to his feet. "I'd introduce you, but we were still working on the introductions when you walked up-"

Ishiko's voice was flat, and signified neither patience nor impatience. It did, however, have a certain edge that suggested Brown should cease talking sooner rather than later. "Brown."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, very well," he said huffily, and wagged his finger at her. "You know, Ishi, you should really learn to be more sociable. Talk! Your tongue won't fall out, I promise."

The woman shrugged. "Might," she said blandly. "Why risk it?"

Brown huffed an exasperated sigh. "Oh, Ishi, you're such a spoilsport," he mourned. Then he turned to me. "Walk this way!" he announced, and turned to walk directly into the haunches of a passing camel, which grunted in annoyance and stepped on his foot. "Whoops! Oh, I say! I _am _sorry. Didn't even see you there!"

I heard a rumble, and looked up to see a pair of golden eyes glowering after the boy as Brown sidled past the camel, which seemed unusually hostile and unwilling to let him out of its sight, by the way its nostrils flared and it bared its stubby, yellowed teeth. Usually, most camels considered disputes ended after a well-placed spit. "Ghufran must have been smoking some of her own lotus when she hired this cretin," the outlander mage growled.

The yellow-skinned woman stepped forward, her arms folded across her chest and her face unreadable. "Possible," she agreed. Then she inclined her head enough to fix me with one coal-black eye. "Coming?" she asked.

I did not reply. I did not see that I truly had much of a choice. Either I took help where I could find it, or I lost my people to the questionable mercy of the Zhentarim. Ghufran's grisly warnings rang in my mind. I could not let them become reality.

_I do what I must, _I thought grimly, and followed the woman where she led.

Slowly, by fits and starts and with Brown apologizing profusely to everyone his feet carried him into, we went to meet Schaern.

Whatever a 'softie' was, I did not think Schaern was it.

As a matter of fact, he had no relation to anything that might be called soft. If anything, he looked as if he had been hacked from a chunk of rock rather than born from a woman's womb. That was no great surprise. It was what my people often said about the D'Tarig.

"You sully those carpets, I'll sully your wives," Schaern bellowed at a wagon-full of men, "…and I'll make sure they like it, you sons of a spavined-" The D'Tarig man turned, and fix us with a brusque black eye. He looked me up and down, and I fought the urge to hide behind the sorcerer, who was large and no doubt would shield me but I would be…would be _cursed _if I asked him for protection from this icy-eyed, sallow-skinned lout. It was only a look, after all, even though it made me want to squirm like an overturned beetle. "What in the Hells have you brought me, boy?" the D'Tarig barked impatiently. "I wanted guards, and you've brought me…what? A greenskin with delusions o' magehood and some pudgy little brown-skinned bint who's run off with her daddy's sword?"

A strange light flared in the sorcerer's eyes, at that, and he raised his hand. In an instant, his fingers went from bare to fire-wreathed. "Such words," he drawled, in a voice which put me in mind of honey and hornets all at once. "If you would like a demonstration of Xanos's prowess, you need only to ask."

This Schaern reared his head back, his eyes narrowing with hostility. Then, to my everlasting surprising, his face cleared, and he barked a laugh. "Well, slap my arse and call me a ha'penny whore!" he exclaimed. "You _are _a mage. How about that?"

"I am a sorcerer," Xanos corrected proudly. A faint, feral smile showed the tips of his fangs. "And it has been a very long time since I have had the pleasure of incinerating anything, so I would advise you not to give me reason to do it now."

Brown stepped forward with unusual haste. "Ghufran sent them on," the boy blurted. "You know how Arlen and Giuvic were last night-"

Schaern blinked. "Eh? What happened to them two?"

Brown waved his hand airily. "Oh, they were taken with the grippe. These two are to take their place. Didn't she tell you?"

Schaern subjected me to another blank stare. Then he looked away, and it was as if I no longer existed. "Fine," he said shortly. "If Ghufran sent 'em, that's good enough for me." He waved a blunt-fingered hand at the outlander mage. "We leave now," he added. "Either you've got what you need or you leave here without it. Understood?"

Xanos raised an eyebrow. "Quite," he said flatly.

"Good. Take flank, and get out o' my sight."

He left to shout at someone else. An awkward silence descended.

On its way down, the silence met Brown, who cleared his throat and promptly broke its fall. "Well, Schaern has spoken. Guess that's that!" he announced happily, and bobbed his head in a speedy bow before spinning away on his heel. "I'll see you two when we stop for lunch. Schaern doesn't like it when I talk and walk. Says I run into too many things. Honestly, I don't know where he gets tha-" A rock skittered away from beneath his foot, and he stumbled, barely catching himself against the side of a wagon. "Blast," he sighed. Then smiled a wide, white smile. "Well, I still think Schaern is overreacting." He rolled his eyes. "Besides, these feet…I _know_ I'll never get them to work properly, no matter how long I live. The right one goes left while the left one goes right, and then I'm all a-tangle, and I'll swear I didn't mean to be-"

He left, too, still chattering like a magpie, though I wasn't sure to whom. To the spirits of air, possibly, though as far as I was aware they had never been known to talk back.

I stared after him. "What a strange person," I announced at last, bemusedly.

Xanos grunted. "Strange, and a fool, but a fool who knows more than most fools do. Were I you, little girl, I would watch what I say around him," he warned. Then his gaze sharpened, becoming as piercing as a hawk's. "Are you truly a sheikh's daughter?" he asked suddenly.

If I ever could have lied about that, it was not in the face of such a blunt question. "Y-yes," I stammered. Then I rallied somewhat, though I did not know why I bothered explaining. Perhaps it was just because I was tired of that look of scorn in his eyes. I had not been the one to kill Kel-Garas, it was true, but I had _some _worth. "Twice over, in fact. First my father, and then my uncle, after he died and married our mother."

"A-ha! Well, that explains much."

I paused. "Such as?" I asked warily.

The trap closed on me. "Such as your willingness to order others' lives for your own purposes," he retorted with easy malice. "And the way you shriek does put me in mind of a spoiled little princess."

Blood rushed to my face. I had worked more than any other girl in the tribe from the time I was old enough to walk, felt the sting of the switch on my back more times than I could count, and this man knew nothing of my people. _Nothing. _If he did, he would have known that it was the family of the sheikh of whom the _most _was expected, not the least.

None of those words, however, quite cleared the knot of fury in my throat. Only one did. "You-"

He looked down at me – not coldly, because I did not think it possible for his cat's eyes to do anything but burn – but distantly, as if I was beneath him in more ways than one. "I?" he needled expectantly.

My lips clamped shut. "Nothing," I said shortly.

He snorted, and looked away. "Good."


	24. Chapter 24

24.

I kept to myself, and spoke to no one. It was simpler that way, and I was in no mood to be sociable.

There was something both familiar and unfamiliar about the rhythms of the caravan, and I settled into it uncomfortably quickly.

We woke at dawn, stopped at midday, pitched sunshades, ate a meal which needed no fires, and waited until the sun no longer pounded quite so furiously on the tops of our heads. These fools did not wear headscarves, which was strange. Perhaps that was why outlanders all acted as they did – they had all baked their brains like puddings.

I sat on the edge of the shade, unsheathed al-Rashid's blade, and watched how the sun glinted off of it. It did not seem to need sharpening. By the stories of my people, it never had. Still, I rubbed it with an oilcloth I had found in the packs my dead tribesmen carried, because Hammad had taught me to take good care of my weapons.

Then I sat, blade in hand, and stared out over the flat sands. There were sinuous dunes in the distance, and cloud-scraping spires of stone that burned orange in the haze of the afternoon sky.

I spoke to no one. I did not know what to say to these people, or how to say it, and the last thing I wanted to do was to say the wrong thing and appear a fool. So I said nothing at all, and hoped that my uninviting posture would keep all intruders at bay.

Eventually, the sun's blaze quieted, and we of the caravan dismantled our camp and moved on.

Ahead, heavily loaded camels paced the sand on their long and gangly legs, heads upheld to gaze steadfastly into the distance and to ignore their handlers, who retrieved their attention with sticks and curses. Beside me, a wagon creaked, drawn by oxen and carrying fragrant sacks of spices and strange foodstuffs and rolled-up carpets which clanked when they shifted. Behind, there was nothing but dust and heat and a horizon which rolled very slowly backwards.

Night fell like a hammer, the light winking out on the horizon as the sun finally fled the sky.

On the first night, I stood in the shadows at the rear of the wagon and watched how the men set up their tents, dug their firepits, and organized their watches.

I did not feel confident enough to take watch unless I was asked, but I knew how to carry things, and the motions of work were familiar enough to me.

Besides, I would not be seen to ask for instructions. If I did, I would betray myself for the lost girl I was, rather than the sellsword I was believed to be. Even _I, _as unschooled in the art of subterfuge as I was, knew that.

Men were unloading things from the wagon. I stepped forward, and reached out to help.

One bulky-shouldered D'Tarig man looked over at me. "You sure you want to take that, sweetheart?"

_Sweetheart. _My back stiffened. I had carried jugs full of water from the oasis since I was tall enough to shoulder them. I had carried the corpses of grown men. Furthermore, I certainly was not anyone's sweetheart, least of all this creature's. "I can," I said shortly, and hauled the thing up before he could object further. It was just a matter of pushing with some muscles and pulling with some others, that was all – and I had plenty of muscles. Underneath all of the extra padding, anyway. Gritting my teeth, I hefted it until it lay more comfortably across my shoulders. "Where do you want it?"

He gave me a strange look, as if he didn't know what to make of me but didn't quite care enough to figure it out. Then he shrugged, and waved a hand towards one of the growing firepits. "Over there. Knock yourself out."

I nodded, and strode off. Voices followed me.

"Unfriendly little bitch, isn't she?" one man muttered. Someone else laughed agreement, and I felt a flush creep up my neck. Determinedly, I resisted the urge to look back.

That night, I rolled myself into my blankets, away from the others. No one paid me much mind. I was glad of it – in a way, it reminded me of home.

I huddled further into my blankets. _Yes, _my own voice agreed with me morosely. _But this is not home, and there is no Zebah here to talk to. _Then I tossed and turned until morning.

The days went by, far too slowly. I spoke to no one, and no one spoke to me. I was content enough with that arrangement, especially as it concerned a certain outlander mage who strode at the edges of the caravan, day after day, garish robes clashing against the orange of the sand and his broad shoulders thrown back as if _daring _any raiders to come and get him. I wished them luck – much as I needed his help, I would have wept no tears for his demise.

_Curses cut two ways, _I thought glumly. Well, mine was no different. Perhaps he was bound to my service, but I was bound to suffer his attitude. I would have told him as much, too, but it was a relief to be somewhat free of his company.

I often saw him at night, sitting near the firelight, balancing a book on his knee and drawing silence around him like a veil. He did not seem much inclined to speak, either – with anyone. Nor did anyone seem inclined to bother him. They paid him plenty of mind, that was sure. It was impossible not to. There was something about him which drew the eye.

I did not think it was the strangeness of his looks that did it, though they were strange enough, with his neatly tied, night-black hair and gray-green skin and the half-human, half-bestial cast of his face. It might have been his clothes, which were bright colored, or his jewelry. Between the earrings in his pointed ears and the rings flashing on his fingers, I thought he wore more jewelry than most women I had seen.

However, I thought it was more likely that it was just his particular air which drew the eye. He carried himself very haughtily, and he radiated a sense of restless, seething energy, even when sitting perfectly still. In fact, it radiated even more strongly, then, because it was then that all of his focus was turned on the book in front of him, and it seemed as if the intensity of it might sear right through the pages and turn the thing to ash on the spot.

That first night, as I watched him at his reading and wondered whether his book would live through the night, he cocked his head – and, quite suddenly, he lifted his eyes and looked directly at me.

His eyes glittered like chips of topaz in the firelight, and were perhaps the most unsettling aspect of him of all. They seemed to slice right through me, flaying me open to the bone.

I jerked my eyes away. For the rest of the night, and every night thereafter, I turned my utmost attention to the shadows beyond the circle of firelight, or the miniscule nicks along the edge of my scimitar, or even to my own feet. _Anything _but him.

I spoke to no one, and no-one spoke to me.

Well – almost no-one.

A cheerful tenor voice rang above the noise of the camp. "I say, you – the mopey little thundercloud over there!" it called, and Brown stepped out from behind the wagon's concealing bulk, smiling at me with altogether too much brightness. "Yes, you! Is something the matter?" He clucked his tongue, and draped an altogether _too _familiar arm about my shoulders. "Come, now! Tell uncle Brown. He'll turn that frown upside down!"

I sidled out from beneath his arm and gathered my robes around myself as if they might armor me against the intrusions of overly friendly, nut-colored madmen. "I…I beg your pardon?" I stammered.

Brown beamed. "Oh, no need, no need," he said, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. "Why beg my pardon? You've done nothing wrong. Well, nothing except to be all cranky and unsociable, but I'm sure you have your reasons for it. Will you tell me what they are?"

"No."

"No?" he echoed. Then, suddenly, he laughed. It was a merry, chiming sort of laugh, and set off a spate of chuckles in the nearest D'Tarig, who shook their heads at the boy before turning back to their duties. "Well, in that case, I'll just have to guess!" he proclaimed. Then, before I could stop him, he flopped down onto the dust at my feet and assumed a thoughtful pose, his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand. "You can't be angry to be out in this lovely hot sun, can you?" he asked with perplexed concern. "You are Bedine. Bedine just adore the sun, otherwise you'd have left the desert years and years and years ago and gone to live, I don't know, in the Dalelands somewhere, where I hear that the climate is much more agreeable and not nearly as many things want to try to kill you. Unless you live in, say, Myth Drannor. Then there's _really_ going to be an amazing number of things that will want to try to kill you."

I blinked, feeling as if I was drowning in a sea of words - none of them very sensible. "You…do not like it here?" I asked weakly.

He blinked rapidly. "What? No!" he exclaimed, and threw his hands wide. "I love it here! 'Tis my home, after all. Honestly, I don't even know why anyone would want to live anywhere else. Miles and miles and miles of hot sand and blue skies and sunlight - and the wind! The wind's ever so lovely, don't you agree?"

As if on cue, a gust of wind whipped a few strands of hair into my eyes. I tugged them away impatiently. "Not…exactly." Then I said something very stupid. In my defense, such things appeared to be expected around here. "It was not this windy, where I grew up."

Brown perked up, sitting up on his knees with his eyes as bright as two amber beads. "Oh?" he asked eagerly. "Where was that?"

I was tempted to use one of Hammad's curses. "I…nowhere. E-excuse me," I stammered, and fled for the relative safety of a cooking fire, dodging questions like arrows. The men were very haphazard about their stews, and _something_ needed stirring before it burned, I was sure. All I needed to do was to find out what that was.

Two days later, he appeared again, this time popping up from behind a tent like an inquisitive djinni.

I yelped, and dropped an armful of tent poles onto my feet. They fell with a clatter.

The boy smiled at me vaguely, seeming not to notice. "You know, I've been thinking-" he announced without preamble.

I flexed my toes experimentally. Nothing seemed to be broken, no thanks to this yammering imbecile. "You have?" I said acidly, and knelt to gather up the fallen tent poles. It was rude of me, I knew, but rudeness seemed to pass for manners among these people, so… "Truly? This must be a new experience for you."

He blinked at me. Then his face cleared in comprehension and he burst into a flurry of laughter. "Oh, no, it _does _happen now and again. Honest! And don't believe anything Ghufran tells you to the contrary. She lies," he said primly. "Anyway, I've been thinking. _Nowhere_ is an awfully strange place to grow up. Most people grow up somewhere, unless they're githyanki, in the which case they grow up in the Astral Plane, which I hear is somewhere and nowhere and everywhere at once, except that I suppose they don't really grow up, either, because time doesn't flow there at all, if you can believe that-"

"I do not think that I can."

He cocked his head curiously. "Really?" he chirped. "Why not?"

"I find it hard even to believe that there are lands beyond this one. And now you speak of…of entire worlds?" I shook my head. There was only life and death, and the desert. Even children knew that. "Madness."

"Not at all!" he protested defensively. "There are lands beyond the desert, that's for certain. I've caught some glimpses of 'em - and if I hadn't, I've spoken to enough people who've come from there, and all of those people can't have been having one great big mass hallucination all this time, can they? Certainly not. That would take a _lot _of magic, and surely somebody would have noticed _that _by now."

Surely this nattering madman would have noticed my desperate attempts to extricate myself from his company by now. "Perhaps they have," I said with a shrug.

The boy sounded startled. "What, and they've just not told us?" He paused, fidgeting thoughtfully. "No, no, I don't think that's the case," he disagreed. "Else why would the Zhentarim go through so much trouble to cross the desert?"

I sighed, and stared off into the distance glumly. "To get to the other side, of course."

"Oh, only chickens do _that." _The boy turned his head to meet my uncomprehending stare. "What, haven't you heard that old joke?"

I frowned, and looked away. "I am not fond of jokes," I said blandly.

The boy laughed. "Oh, so _that's _your problem," he said knowingly. Then he stretched his arms out before him and cracked his knuckles. "Well, we can solve that in a twinkling!" He cupped his elbow in one hand and propped his chin in the other. "All right. Let me think. Hmm. I have it! Why do Bedine ride camels?"

I glanced sideways at him, suspicious. "Why?" I asked slowly.

"Because the camels are too heavy to carry."

I was not certain whether to groan or to burst into tears. Alternatively, I could always have hit him, but he was the only person who knew the way to Hlaunga, so I could not risk hitting him _too _hard. "That was not funny," I growled.

His nose wrinkled slightly in dismay. "Oh. It wasn't?"

"No."

"Blast. Well, I'll just have to think of another one-"

"_No._ Truly. There is no need. I am fine. Thank you." And I turned my back and scurried off, playing deaf to his attempts to call me back.

He ambushed me the day after that, near noon, while I sat on the periphery of the midday camp and watched the sunlight wink on the flat of al-Rashid's blade.

"Oh, I say!" I heard him call. I stared out over the sands, longingly, and considered flight. "You there, the grumpy girl whose name I can't quite remember!" he went on loudly. "What was it? Oh, right! Nadiya!" Then he dropped to the ground beside me, smiling in a sunny, disarming way. "Look, there must be some way to cheer you up," he wheedled.

I shot to my feet. "Will you please stop?" I erupted, gesturing angrily with my scimitar. "I do not need cheering up! Look!" I forced a desperate grin to my face. "I am even smiling!"

He stared up at me for a moment, pursing his lips. "That doesn't look like a smile," he said eventually. "It just looks like you're in pain. Are you sure you're doing it right?" Then he sighed, and clambered to his feet, brushing dust from his plain brown britches in a very businesslike manner. "No, I'm afraid that you are in desperate need of good cheer," he said seriously. "Fortunately for you, I excel at that kind of thing! Except that sometimes people start shouting when I try to jolly things up, like you did just now, but that's all right. Sometimes, the path to happiness is winding and crooked and filled with sharp, pointy things." He thought for a moment. Then he brightened, clapping his hands together in childish glee. "Oh! I have it! Do you like maps?"

I hesitated. A memory flickered, of a map graven in cool stone, with cities and mountains and a single lurking figure, flecked in the remnants of gold leaf. "I…I do not know," I said uncertainly. "I have only seen one."

"Really?" Brown smiled broadly, and swept his arm out before him. "Well, let me show you another!"

He led me to folding table, where maps and other scraps of paper were laid. His lithe brown hand smoothed one of the maps out, and moved aside the rocks which had been keeping it from blowing it away. "Here," he said eagerly, and pointed. "We're here."

I leaned over the table and saw a stretch of featureless yellow beneath his pointing figure. _Sand, _I thought. _Plains and dunes. _"How do you know?" I wondered.

"Well it's a _little _tough to know if you can't see the landmarks properly, but if you can't, you just have to know where you started. A loaded camel can walk about twenty five miles a day, but we're slower, 'cause of the oxen and the wagon, see, so we're doing closer to twenty. So, here's Tel Badir – and isn't it just as fantastically ugly on paper as it is in real life? I swear, I don't know why Ghufran stays there, I keep telling her that I could find her a really lovely lair in the Spires somewhere, but she never takes me up on it. Anyway, we're heading west, so, y'see, what you do is you just take this piece of string, here, and measure off the distance, like this-"

He rambled on, taking measurements and pointing out places and naming names I had never heard of. I felt as if I was floating uneasily on a sea of geographical minutiae. My eyes began to glaze over.

"…and that there's the Oasis of the Green Palm," Brown chattered on amiably. "The people there aren't terribly friendly, but at least they welcome caravans readily enough, which is something most Bedine don't do. No offense, but your people really are a standoffish bunch, for the most part, and altogether_ too_ fond of threatening to behead people, I must say-"

I blinked, and lunged for the map. "What?" I demanded. "Where is this oasis?"

The boy gave me a strange look. His finger moved to a point, a tiny blue dot with something scribbled above it. "Here," he said.

I stared at the map. _That is my home, _I thought numbly. It was so small – such an unremarkable dot in the vastness of the Anauroch. And yet, Ali was there, and where Ali was, so would be all of his warriors…

Hope rose up in me, bright and hot. "When…when will we reach it?" I blurted.

"Hmm? Oh, _we _won't." Brown looked around cautiously, and lowered his voice. "_We'll_ be leaving before then, y'see. Where we're going is-" He moved his finger right and upwards. "There. Less than a tenday away at this point, I'd wager – it might be quicker, but we'll have to go carefully once we leave the caravan. The oasis, on the other hand, is about three tendays away. But we'll be long gone by then, I'm sorry to say. No matter – I'm sure you can see it next time 'round! That is, if you'd like to keep working for Ghufran. She's not bad, really. Honest. She does her best, and that's all anyone can really ask for, right?"

"Mm-hmm." Barely half of Brown's words registered. The two points on the map were far apart – much too far, if Brown's recitation of distances on this map were any measure.

Hope sank, and broke apart.

Beside me, Brown shifted. "Oh," he said suddenly, realization dawning. Sympathy colored his voice. "Is _that_ where you're from? I'm so sorry-"

Blood rushed to my face. How did people keep up lies like this? It was impossible. "Y-yes," I stuttered, and cast about for something to say which would not be a lie but which would not be the truth, either. "But I…cannot go back." _Not yet._

"Ooh, right. You're an exile." Brown clucked his tongue and patted my shoulder solicitously. "That's a shame. I'm terribly sorry. I know what it's like to have to leave the place where you were born." Some of the cheeriness went out of his voice, and it was a long, awkward moment before he shook himself and went on. "What happened?"

I bit my lip nervously. Perhaps an air of mystery would help? "I…I would rather not talk about it."

"Why not? I would love to talk about it!" He nudged my shoulder. "Come _on, _mopey! Tell me. It won't hurt!"

No. An air of mystery would not help. It would only make Brown ask more questions. I tried deflection, instead. "You would love to talk about anything," I muttered sourly. "It does not matter what it is."

A grin flashed across his face. "Well, yes," he admitted. "That's true." He looked at my face. "I haven't cheered you up, have I?" he asked glumly. "And I tried so hard, too…"

I hesitated. Then, very gingerly, I touched his forearm, just a brush of the fingertips. It was not proper, but… "You did help, a little," I said gruffly. "Thank you."

Then I turned and, gnawing thoughtfully on my lower lip, walked away.

That night, I sat on the edge of the firelight, watchful and silent, as always.

And, as always, my eyes eventually wandered to Xanos.

I could not help it. It was his size, that was what it was. He towered head and shoulders and, for that matter, _chest_ above these D'Tarig men. Even Ishiko seemed dwarfed by him. Rather like a mountain range, he filled up the horizon – and, like a mountain range, he was impossible to ignore.

He was writing something. He was doing it very delicately, because he had the parchment resting on his knee, and he did it with frequent references to a book he had open beside him. I did not know how he held the quill so lightly, in those huge hands of his, but he did, defying all physical expectations.

_Ali can read, _I mused. Hammad had been able to, as well. I could not. Nor, it necessarily followed, could I write. It was a skill taught to a son of a sheikh, not a daughter – and even then, there were few enough who cared to learn it. If I could get news of what had happened to the others on paper, and get someone on this caravan to carry _that _home, it was likely that the missive would be safe from all eyes but Ali's.

Abruptly, I stood, and crossed the circle of firelight, before I could lose my nerve.

The sorcerer looked up as my shadow crossed his page. It took him a moment to focus on me, as if he was obliged to wait for his brain to come back from some far-away land.

Then, when he recognized me, his eyes narrowed. "Ah," he said with acerbic delight. "So you have decided to honor me with your company once again." He sneered. "To what do I owe this singular grace?"

I was already beginning to regret this. "I had an idea which may help us," I snapped. "If you do not wish to hear it, by all means, tell me, and I will go."

He raised his eyebrows. Beneath them, his eyes gleamed. "By all means, go, but bear in mind that _you_ approached _me_," he drawled. "This must mean that you want something which only I can provide. How willing are you to give it up, hmm?"

I ground my teeth together. "_How_ do you know that?" I demanded.

He snorted. "Why else would anyone approach Xanos?" His voice was sour, and his eyes fixed on the fire. "Well?" he prompted impatiently. "Go on. What is it that you wanted?"

I sat, warily, keeping a distance between him and myself and picking my words with care. "I was speaking to Brown," I said, lowering my voice to a hushed whisper that even I could barely hear, the way I had done when speaking to Zebah when we did not want to be overheard. If this sorcerer's ears were truly so keen, he would understand me. If not, he would simply have to ask me to repeat myself. "He says that we will pass near the place…the place where you killed the lich."

He did not look at me. "And?" he prompted again.

I thought that my vision tinged with red, for a moment. I had heard tales of warriors who fell into an unreasoning rage when in battle and ripped everything around them to very small pieces. I wondered if that could happen outside of battle, too. "My brother is there," I hissed. "He will want to know what has happened."

"_And_?"

I entertained a brief fantasy of picking up a tent pole and beating him over the head with it. "My brother can _read_. I cannot. I thought I might write him a _note, _you-" My teeth snapped on the last word, not giving it voice. I was not _that _far removed from my manners.

"So?" the infuriating man asked indifferently. "Can you not do that without involving me?"

My cheeks burned. "No. I…I cannot read. Or write."

"Hah! Whose fault was that, then?"

I was going to kill him. I was going to kill him. I was going to- "What do _mean_, whose fault was it?" I snarled between clenched teeth. "It was no one's fault. It was simply…not allowed."

_Not allowed? _a nagging little voice in my head asked. For some reason, it sounded a little like Hammad._ As swordplay was not allowed? And since when has that ever stopped you, my little bramble-headed one?_

"Idiocy," the sorcerer's voice rumbled curtly, interrupting my thoughts. "You do not wait for someone to grant you permission to improve yourself."

"_You_ do not know a thing about my people," I retorted.

"Hah! I know enough. I know that you limit yourselves with superstition and tradition. I know that you live in a dangerous place while simultaneously denying half your population the right to fight in their own defense, as if a pair of breasts are in any way relevant to anyone's ability to handle a sword . I know that you fear magic out of ignorance, and do your utmost to murder those who are gifted with it – even your own blood, and even though their power might be the only thing standing between you and annihilation." He made a quick negating gesture. "Enough," he growled. "What do you want of me?"

I took a deep breath and fought back the urge to slap that scornful curl of his lip from his face. I could not let him goad me. I had a duty to my people which superseded any personal offense. I had to remember that. "If I tell you what to say, can you write a message?" I asked tersely.

He cocked his head, considering. His voice, when it came, was like the clang the temple door at home, sliding shut. "No."

The flush had overtaken my ears. "What do you mean, _no_?"

"You did not specify that I should act as a messenger, in that miserable curse of yours. Therefore, I will not do it."

I spluttered with outrage. "You-"

He stared back, unblinking. "I?" he challenged.

I swallowed my disappointment. "Nothing," I spat, and lurched to my feet.

I did not know why I had bothered to ask. It was useless to appeal to that beast's sense of compassion. He had none, and his loyalty was only to himself, the way it was with all of these outlanders. He was no different.

I stalked past the ring of firelight, my eyes stinging. I would have to find a way to get word to Ali on my own, it seemed. That, or forge ahead without him.

I stared at the shadowy ground, watching the sand curl up onto the night breeze._ Well, that is only what I expected to do, so I have lost nothing by that…that _creature's _rejection, _I told myself firmly, and wiped my eyes. If this was a sparring match, Hammad would have told me to stop whining like I'd just squatted in a thornbush, get back on my feet, and fight.

Still…I wished that my uncle was here to say it directly. Knowing that I could only imagine his words from now on left a hollow, heavy ache in my chest that the past few tendays had not done anything to dislodge.

Sand hissed, very softly.

I frowned. It was not very windy – not enough for the sand to make so much noise.

I looked down to see the ground funneling away beneath me.

_Funnels, _I thought. _Where have I seen-_

My heart broke into a gallop.

Taking a breath, I stuck two fingers in my mouth and whistled, loud enough to wake the dead, because that was the first thing any Bedine warrior should do, even before drawing his own weapon – warn the camp of the danger. Even _I, _woman that I was, knew that. "Stingers!" I shouted.

Then a red-skinned hand burst from the ground, and yanked me from my feet.


	25. Chapter 25

25.

The presumptuous little princess had stormed off, no doubt to sulk.

_Pfaugh. Let her sulk, then, _I thought dourly, glowering into the fire. _She may have me in her power, but she will not find my leash so easy to hold. At least I can do that much._

I had almost come to terms with my imprisonment, too, once my damnable nemesis had chosen to pretend that I did not exist and leave me be for several blessed, blissful days. So the girl wanted me to help her spoke the Zhentarim's wheels. Hah! Xanos was more than up to the challenge. I would prove as much, and perhaps, once I had done so, I would be able to pick up the scattered pieces into which the fall of Undrentide had thrown my life.

Perhaps…perhaps I might even gain something more of use. The Zhentarim were said to be sitting on vast reams of magical lore and research. There was no such thing as useless knowledge, and I stood to gain a great deal of it, if only I could pry wide a few Zhentarim jaws and get them to spill their secrets.

But then...then my little malefactor had remembered both my existence and my _use_ to her, and had once again chosen to rub my face in the undeniable fact of my servitude. And, once again, I found myself seething in fury – a state which was made no more palatable by the fact that it was quite_ impotent_ fury.

And then – _and then!-_ to add insult to injury to bloody screaming inconvenience, every single member of our escort appeared to be giving me a wide and wary berth. I had not even tried to intimidate them. Perhaps Guthran had had a word with them, and advised them not to provoke me. If I lived through this, that damnable woman was going to get a piece of my mind. She existed just to thwart me, I was convinced.

_Just let me hear one 'greenskin' fall from anyone's lips, _I fumed. The fire spat and crackled. _Just _one_, and I will show them exactly what it means to-_

Beyond the firelight, the night moved. I froze in mid-seethe.

My night vision was all but gone – and an act of profoundest idiocy it had been indeed, to sit so near the fire, where the light was bound to render me as night-blind as a human – but there _was_ a certain sensation in the air, an insistent tension that tapdanced along my nerves like a nervous cat, caterwauling for my attention.

It was a very familiar sensation. I had encountered it many times in my life.

It meant that someone was about to try to kill me.

Slowly, I unfolded myself and stood, never taking my eyes from the far shadows.

Something flashed in the gloom. _Metal_, I thought. The head of a weapon, I thought. Nothing else quite raised my hackles in that particular way.

Then the night moved in, scuttling like a spider, and the alarms went up at last.

"Stingers!" someone shouted, and others took up the cry. "Stingers! Tymora's Tits, they're all around us!"

I paid the screaming no mind. My attention was already turned inward, unraveling the ties that bound my power.

It came at once, and all too eagerly. Heat surged through my veins, burning on the tip of my tongue and filling my head with the snap and snarl of fire.

Before me, the fire flared up hungrily, its tongues momentarily edged with green.

_Been too long without usin' it, boy, _a memory of Drogan's voice said critically. _Power's bleedin' all over the place. Pull it back, now, and focus._

_Easier said than done, old man, _I snarled soundlessly, but obeyed, though holding the power back was like damming a river with a teaspoon. I obeyed, because only beasts let their instincts control them, and I would be no beast. It would prove far too many imbeciles right.

Steel flashed, the heads of halberds dipping and swooping to catch the madly tumbling D'Tarig. Legs, barbed and jointed like a spider's, scuttled across the sand. Flat-nosed, slit-eyed red faces, human-yet-not in a way which made even _my _face look personable by comparison, swivelled as their prey ducked and dodged. Poison-tipped tails waved in the air, poised to jab.

One of those faces turned to me – arrested, it seemed, by the prospect of such a large and juicy target.

I smiled. It was, I had no doubt, a vicious sort of smile. I was in a vicious sort of mood.

The stinger advanced, undeterred. _Good_. Let it come. I had a little surprise waiting for it.

I stood my ground. _Hold it, _my voice whispered, or Drogan's, or perhaps a bit of both, the disparate parts of my brain all jostled together by the boil and churn of power._ Hold it._

The creature sidled forward, and then gathered its three hindmost pairs of legs beneath it as if to lunge.

_There. Let go._

The fire reared up, green as envy and hot as sin.

The wood that fed it went white, and crumbled, reduced to ash in an instant. The fire burned on, sourceless and searing, kept alive by will alone.

Through the curtain of flame, I saw the stinger recoil.

_Having second thoughts, are we? _I grinned wickedly and lifted a hand. The heat was sucking the air from my lungs and blistering my skin. It was glorious. _Hah! Let's give him something else to think about, shall we?_

A wave of my hand sent the fire leaping forward joyfully, straight into the arms of the startled stinger.

The stinger did not seem to appreciate my gift very much, receiving it with much screaming and flailing. _Ah, well. _There was no accounting for taste.

With one last, high-pitched scream, the creature blackened and crumpled quite satisfyingly, collapsing in on itself like so much spent firewood.

I began to laugh. Stopped. Cocked my head. The muted hiss of shifting earth seemed to grate against my eardrums, altogether too loudly.

_Something is behind me, _I thought, except that I did not quite think the words. Not so clearly, nor coherently. Some bestial instinct did the thinking for me.

A faint ripple of air raised gooseflesh on my arm. _Over there, _my hindbrain whispered, and I spun, automatically calling up heat of an entirely different kind.

A hissing line of acid splattered across the chestplate of a startled stinger. It sunk in quickly, scoring a deep and bubbling groove in the thing's exoskeleton.

_Bloody things scream like fishwives, _I thought irrelevantly, and fired off another arrow of acid while the stinger was still reeling from the first. The second arrow went into the stinger's throat, effectively carving a hole in its jugular and cauterizing the wound in one go.

My second opponent went down with a gurgle. I sniffed disdainfully at its corpse, turned again to take stock of the situation-

-and saw my little Bedine charge being carried away by a hungry stinger, struggling frantically against the arm that was clamped around her waist.

I paused. A series of ruminations and calculations crept through my mind, ones such as, _Sensible of them. There must be a good ten stone of meat on her, at least, _and, _Do nothing, let them take her, let fate solve your little predicament, _and, _Cyric's Balls, are _they_ in for a hellish time of it-_

And that was when she ruined my plans. Again.

Her struggling stilled. I had time enough to see a singularly _mulish_ expression settle over her face before the guise of a panicked little mouse fell away…

…to reveal a furious little mongoose who balled her hand into a fist, gritted her teeth, and rammed her elbow backwards, where it met the stinger's flat nose and rendered it even flatter.

I thought I saw the stinger's eyes cross, just for an instant, in that brief moment after the girl had relieved its face of her elbow but before she had had the chance to wind up for the next hit.

Then the stinger screamed – a justifiable response, I thought, because I'd gotten that elbow lodged in my sternum at least once already and knew from experience just how damnably solid it was - and dropped her.

Being dropped from that height should have stunned her – it _would _have stunned a less hard-headed creature – but some lust-addled sheikh at some point in the girl's ancestry must have mistaken a stone golem for one of his sheep and thereafter introduced bones of solid stone in his progeny, because the drop did not seem to effect the girl at all. If anything, it only served to make her angrier.

She landed in a crouch, clawing for her sword, and then she was up and swinging...

...except that her blade screeched harmlessly across the stinger's shell, as useless as a butter knife against dwarf-forged steel.

This did not seem to deter her. She ducked under the stinger's swipe, keeping low and staying just _within _its halberd's reach-

_-Nine Hells, _I thought, before I could stop myself. _She is using the height difference. _I recognized the tactic. I had seen a few halflings fight that way when confronted with larger opponents. _Clever ploy. Close the distance, rob your opponent of his superior reach, and you are almost guaranteed-_

-well, in her case, she was guaranteed another futile strike and a desperate sideways dodge as the stinger hissed and lurched forward, the tip of its tail plunging into the sand she would have been had she been just a heartbeat slower.

What she needed, I decided, was a bludgeoning weapon to crack the stinger's exoskeleton, or a thrusting weapon – such as one of those spears she had appropriated from the dead asabi and still had slung quite uselessly across her back – to punch through the shell at one of its weak points. The single, curving edge of her scimitar was uniquely unsuited to her current task. I could have told her as much, had I had any wish to do so.

I hesitated.

_Aye. Plucky little thing, isn't she? _Drogan's voice insinuated itself innocently. _But she still seems a mite outmatched. Why don't ye go help her, boy?_

My lip curled into a snarl. _Shut up, old man. _Then I realized that I'd taken a half-step forward. When had I done that? More to the point, _why _had I done it? Plucky or not, the girl was my jailor, and my jailor could bloody well fend for herself.

I was losing my mind, that was the problem. It was inevitable, I supposed, given my family history and the shite the world had put me through so far. I did wish that I could have enjoyed a few more years of relative sanity before going completely stark raving ga-ga, though - or that I could at least have picked a better time for it. Idly, I wondered it the girl's curse would still bind a madman. That would have been entirely in keeping with my luck thus far, that I would be freed of her only when I was too far gone to lunacy to enjoy my freedom.

Then a shadow separated itself from the other shadows behind the stinger, and the flash of a hook-headed axe neatly resolved my dilemma for me.

It bit into the fine fault line between two adjoining plates of the stinger's carapace, there where the tail met the body. Then it was yanked back, hard, by a wiry yellow hand. A sharp crack resounded, and a chunk of shell lifted like a fingernail being torn from its bed, showing the raw flesh beneath. The open wound rapidly welled with blackish blood and greenish ichor. It looked deucedly uncomfortable.

Ishiko pulled her axe back and somersaulted out of the way as the stinger screamed and rounded on her, the author of its latest agony.

The Kara-Turan woman was obliged to bend nearly in half to avoid the stinger's clumsy, pain-wracked swipe at her neck. "Spears out!" she barked at the girl. Her voice was harsh, each syllable spat out as if her tongue would let go of them only grudgingly. Nevertheless, let go it did, and of more words than I had ever heard from her before this. "Stab him! Go for the belly!"

The girl froze, for a moment. I could not see her face, but her stance was as tense as a startled doe's, and she seemed to be staring at the stinger's ravaged back as if this was the first she had seen of it.

Then her shoulders stiffened against what must have been some small trickle of comprehension, and she seemed to unfreeze all at once.

Several quick steps carried her backwards, out of range of both tail and halberd, while at the same time her left hand caught the tossed hilt of her scimitar from her right and her newly-freed right hand reached back over her shoulder, her fingers closing on a spear.

A normal spear would likely have been too thick for a hand as small as hers to hold securely, but asabi were smaller than men, and their spears were made for commensurately shorter grips. I refused to believe that the girl had considered this when she had taken the things. That was altogether too intelligent a move for a deranged little dervish such as herself. I _would not_ believe it.

I also refused to believe that it was she who dived for the nearest opening in the fray, knocked aside one spider-like leg with the flat of her scimitar, and drove the spear up and into the stinger's belly with the other hand before scrabbling away again, leaving the spear sticking out of the dying monster's side like a needle in a pincushion. That was altogether too effective a maneuver. What had she dragooned me into this farce for, if she was so competent in her own defense? Perhaps a doppelganger had assumed her form. Or perhaps I was hallucinating the whole thing. It was the only explanation that I thought I could swallow without immediately vomiting it up again in revulsion.

The silence, immediately after the last stinger fell, was deafening. D'Tarig stood around, weapons still in hand and eyes wide to catch any movement that might herald a second wave. Those stingers who were not quite dead thrashed, once or twice, each thump of their limbs against the sand quite loud in the sudden silence. Then they, too, went still.

In the silence, Ishiko stepped forward, as soundlessly as a cat. She placed one booted foot on the stinger's haunch and tugged at the embedded spear. It came free with a wet, sucking sound.

Then she stalked over to the Bedine girl. "Well struck," she said mildly, and held out the spear. Black ichor dripped down its haft.

The girl took the spear hesitantly. The mongoose was gone, replaced once again by the shy and tremulous mouse. "T-thank you," she stammered.

The Kara-Turan nodded curtly. "Clean it soon," she instructed. "Stuff's corrosive." Then she turned away, leaving the girl opening and closing her mouth like a landed fish.

Into the awkward gap stepped Schaern, who stumped up to the center of the camp, gave his cohorts a quick once-over, grunted, and discharged his crossbow into the ground. The bolt shot into the sand with a _thunk. _One or two D'Tarig – the callower ones, from the looks of things, though that mix of dwarven and human blood in them always made it dicey at best to tell their ages – jumped. "Well, what are you lot waiting around for?" he snapped. "Get those corpses piled where the vultures can get at 'em. Hop to it!"

His bellow seemed to jolt the rest of the camp into moving. D'Tarig dispersed to their tasks, and I eyed the nearest corpse. It was a pity that I knew no levitation spells.

Fortunately, I had a few resources available to me that were not available to most mages.

I stooped to grab a stinger by the hair. I tested its weight. _Not bad. _I did not think that carrying it would present a problem, and thank Gruumsh for small favors. Had I been born a pure-blooded human, chances were that my hours spent studying would have rendered me as frail as a reed.

When I straightened up again, my eyes fell, despite my better judgement, on the little Bedine princess.

I had fully expected her to turn her nose up - or possibly turn her tail - at the daunting task of hauling a corpse that must have outweighed her by a factor of _three_.

Instead, that bloody-minded, steely-limbed, unspeakably _annoying_ little creature merely surveyed the body critically, wiped her spear in the sand, slung it across her back, and bent to grasp a dead stinger by one limp leg.

She hauled it off with only the briefest of backwards glances, an unfriendly flash of dark eyes that settled on me and then moved away again haughtily, as if I was not even worthy of that much of her attention.

She did not even ask for help. _She did not even ask for help. _I could have easily carried that for her, but had she even deigned to ask me, her oh-so valuable slave? Of course not! That would have been entirely too easy.

A growl rumbled in my throat. I stared after her balefully. _Impudent little show-off, _I thought, and stuck out a hand to stop a passing D'Tarig. He was hauling another corpse. That was good. "Give me that," I commanded.

He stared up at me, startled. "What-"

I was in no mood to wait for my request to filter its way through that chunk of rock he called a brain. "Oh, just get out of my way," I snapped, and muscled him aside to relieve him of his burden.

Feeling curiously ill-used, I dragged both stingers to their final destination. This was no challenge. This was no challenge at all. All I had to do was ignore the grinding sensation in my shoulders.

I glowered at the girl's back. She ignored me. I scowled even more deeply, and hoisted my burdens all the higher.

_Impudent little show-off._


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Titwillow Truism #2017: Sometimes, the only way for some people to reach any kind of accord is for them to engage in actual, physical combat._

26.

The scimitar spun out of the Bedine girl's hands once again. In a heartbeat, she had the Kara-Turan's hooked axe at her throat.

The little savage did not seem especially alarmed to have that beastly cleaver so close to her neck. If anything, she stared at the other woman with something close to awe. "How do you _do_ that?" she marvelled.

At that, Ishiko withdrew her weapon, stepping back to allow the other woman to retrieve her scimitar. "Curved swords," she explained shortly. "Inward side's vulnerable, if you can get at it." She tapped the hooked edge of her axe. "This grabs well. Sickles do, too. Watch."

The scimitar flew away again. "Oh," the girl said. She frowned, absent-mindedly snapping her hand to take away the sting. "I think I see."

They squared off again. When next Ishiko's axe snuck past the girl's guard and made a bid to relieve her of her weapon, the girl twisted her wrist to turn her blade to one side.

The axe recoiled, but so did the girl. Her hand spasmed, dropping her sword to the sand. A mewl of pain escaped her lips, and her off-hand cradled the wrist of her sword arm. "Blast," she muttered. Her face reddened. "That was not right, was it?"

"No," Ishiko agreed blandly, and gestured for the girl to pick up her sword again. "But the first step is to see what you did wrong."

"True." The girl shook her wrist out before she reached for her fallen scimitar. "Let us try again," she said briskly.

Ishiko inclined her head and raised her weapon. "Aye."

By the time Schaern had, in his own special way, called on the caravan to start moving _("You've got until the count o' ten to pull your britches up and get these wagons movin', you bunch o' godsdamned lily-livered lick-spigots!"), _the little mongoose had managed to retain her grip on her scimitar only once, and to lose it another half a dozen times.

Frustration painted her face, clear as day. "I do not understand," she complained, flexing her bruised fingers. "What am I doing wrong?"

Ishiko seemed to consider that. "Who're you countering?" she asked suddenly.

Frustration gave way to confusion. "What?"

"You're not countering me." The Kara-Turan pointed her axe at the other woman's blade. "You're countering someone who fights with one of those."

The little nitwit's face cleared with understanding. "Oh," she said. "That was my uncle." She shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably. "He taught me."

"Good. Forget him."

The poor little termagant seemed paralyzed somewhere between incipient outrage and confused respect. "I…beg your pardon?"

"You're still fighting like you did with him. To fight me, you need to fight _me_. Understood?"

The awe was back in the girl's eyes, tinged every so slightly with hero worship. "Spirits. You are right. That is _exactly _what I was doing." She frowned. "How did you know?"

The Kara-Turan smiled briefly. It was a gesture both fleeting and unnatural, and was rather like watching a chicken attempt to fly. "I know," she said.

The girl stooped to retrieve her scimitar. Halfway there, she hesitated. "May I ask…?"

Ishiko's expression did not change. "Ask."

"Who taught you?"

That thin smile re-appeared. "Life," she said. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, hers was a dark and shuttered place, full of dust and cobwebs and secrets best left undisturbed. Possibly there would be bodies beneath the floorboards. "Tomorrow morning. Be here," she instructed abruptly. Her nod was stiff-necked, and had in it a formality which made it seem one breath away from a bow. "I will teach you to forget."

"I…yes." The girl's awkward half-bow towards her strange new instructor was almost sickeningly deferential. "Thank you."

They parted. The girl brushed past me without a backwards glance – unsurprising, since I was quite invisible. It had seemed prudent to watch this new development unobserved.

_Knowledge is power. _I had not anticipated that the taciturn old mercenary might choose to take the younger woman under her wing, but perhaps it was not so surprising. They had similarly unfriendly dispositions, and similarly bloodthirsty tendencies.

Now that she had, however, I was finding the experience…educational.

_Knowledge is power. Know your enemy's strengths, catalogue their weaknesses. _Ishiko was not necessarily my enemy, though she had the potential to be.

The other one, on the other hand, was most certainly my nemesis, and had been so since she had laid her curse on me.

_Knowledge is power. And fair play is for fools._

I grinned and crackled my knuckles. This was going to be _fun._

Word spread, and the sparring pair was greeted with a ring of onlookers the very next morning.

This time, I did not bother to conceal my presence. I thought that I might see if I could elicit a reaction from my quarry. I thought that the results might be enlightening.

So far, it seemed to be working, and I was learning all _sorts _of fascinating things.

For instance, it was obvious that the girl absolutely _hated_ to be the center of attention. As a matter of fact, she detested it, and if not for her innate obstinacy I suspected that she would have loved nothing more to crawl under the nearest rock and hide. Her cheeks were red, her jaw was clenched, and every catcall from the onlookers made her eyes flicker to the sidelines in a self-conscious search for the culprit.

This meant, of course, that Ishiko was pressing the advantage for all that she was worth.

"Eyes forward," she ordered. Her axe snapped out. "Parry." Steel rang against steel. "Good. Again." Metal spun, a dizzying flash that ended in the dirt. "Wrong!"

The D'Tarig onlookers hooted. "Get her, Ishi!" one of them jeered. "Go on, you can take her!"

One of his compatriots cuffed him in the back of the head. "Don't be daft," he said. "Y'seen the right hook that girl's got on her? Y'seen how she damn near broke that stinger's face?"

"Hey, just saying-"

Another spectator spat on the sand. "I've always like losin' on the underdog. My money's on the fat little one," he offered laconically, and threw a few coins in the pool. It had grown to quite a tidy little pile. "Who's in with me?"

His challenge prompted a round of bickering. The air was filled with the merry tinkle of falling money. The pool grew.

The fat little one had turned a truly magnificent shade of scarlet. Her eyes darted to one side, and her lips were doing their damnedest to compress themselves into a fine line, despite being so full that she looked as if she spent her spare time sucking on entire mouthfuls of bees.

Nevertheless, she tried. Oh, how she tried, and how she _glared._

I smiled. _Oh, _how I smiled.

_What a delightful people these D'Tarig are_. Xanos had obviously gravely misjudged them.

Ishiko clicked her tongue. "Loosen your shoulders," she ordered her student curtly. "You are too rigid."

The little Bedine jerked her eyes back guiltily. "I…yes. S-sorry."

The Kara-Turan snorted. "Don't be sorry," she said grimly. "Be focused."

By the time Schaern had cursed the caravan into a straggling start, the little Bedine had managed to hold on to her scimitar six times out of ten, and lose it spectacularly only another four.

She swiped a lock of sweaty hair out of her eyes, panting. "Better?" she asked her teacher eagerly.

Ishiko paused. "Better," she allowed, at last.

The girl smiled, evidently pleased – until she saw me, quite plainly visible and leaning against one of the wagons. Her smile wilted like a lily in the noonday sun. Her shoulders stiffened.

Then, without so much as a backwards glance, she shoved past me, scowling.

_Infuriating little cur._ How dare she ignore Xanos like that? Never mind circumspection. She had _ignored_ me. Had I not even been worth an insult? A long and lingering glare? _Something?  
_  
I snarled, and stalked off in the opposite direction.

That was it. I was going to paint myself purple, stick a flagpole up my arse, and start singing the godsdamned Tethyrian national anthem if that was what it took to win this little contest of wills.

She knew that I was there. Day after day, she knew that I was watching, even as the crowd of onlookers dwindled as they decided that blood was not forthcoming, and a sparring match between two women was only worth waking early for if the women were ravishingly beautiful and completely naked, neither of which was the case here.

The girl's awareness of my presence showed in the irritable set of her shoulders, and the telltale way her eyes snagged mine and her lip curled whenever her parries carried her into a spin and she was obliged to glance my way.

I was annoying her, that much was true. But it was not enough.

She was still ignoring me. And she was getting better. _She was getting better. _Day after day after day, she improved, her movements growing sharper and more confident and her fumbles growing fewer and fewer. After a tenday, she had even begun landing the occasional hit on her teacher, though those at least remained few and far between. _That_ was the even-more-infuriating part – the fact that, against all odds, against all expectations, she _learned._ At this rate, Xanos would either have to get her away from Ishiko or hire a godsdamned army to stop her.

It did not help that Ishiko appeared to be a better teacher than her antisocial tendencies might have suggested. She was patient, persistent, and had a sharp eye for those minute details which meant the difference between well-fought round and a rout.

There was no bardic flourish or knightly code informing the Kara-Turan's tactics. She applied much the same philosophy to fighting as she did to speaking. Each movement was pared down to the core, each strike calculated to have the greatest effect for the least expenditure of energy. The woman fought with the grim, business-like efficiency of a street fighter.

_Or an assassin. _She was very quiet, was this Ishiko. Too quiet, and altogether too effective to be a mere mercenary-for-hire. Perhaps she was Ghufran's insurance against my misbehavior. Perhaps she was Ghufran's insurance against Zhentarim spies. Perhaps she _was _a Zhentarim spy. In any case, Ishiko bore watching.

They squared off again. The little Bedine was the first to strike, launching into a series of tight, exploratory slashes, low-high-low. The haft of Ishiko's axe spun, nearly too fast to see, blocking low-high-low and then lashing out at the younger girl's midsection in a sideways arc.

The girl jumped back and slapped the axe down. Ishiko spun with the blow and came out of it swinging – only to find the other woman's scimitar ready and waiting to shove her axe right back in her face.

They separated, taking several steps back. "Good block," Ishiko observed blandly. Unlike her opponent, she was barely out of breath. Her economical style of fighting obviously paid generous dividends. "Unexpected."

The Bedine made a sour face. "I still cannot get through," she grumbled.

The Kara-Turan shrugged. "Comes with time."

"I hope so."

Her strange teacher studied her. "Frustrated?" she asked neutrally.

The little illiterate made a dismissive gesture. "No matter. The morning is not yet done," she said firmly.

"No," Ishiko agreed. "But you are getting sloppy. Need a change of pace." She rolled her crooked shoulders, scanning the gathered crowd with her cool and fathomless eyes. When her gaze fell on me, her gaze paused. _A-ha._

Abruptly, I found myself on the receiving end of a pointing finger. "You," Ishiko said shortly. "Mage. Come here."

I returned her look with one equally as bland. _O-ho. I smell a challenge. _Of course, who was being challenged - and why - was unclear. _No matter. Play coy. See what she wants._ "Who, me?" I drawled innocently.

I had cast my pebbles into the pond, hoping for some betraying response, but not a ripple stirred Ishiko's limpid countenance. She gave absolutely nothing away. It was quite impressive. Or terrifying. _Possibly both_. "Yes. You," she agreed blandly. She turned to Nadiya. "Ever fought a spellcaster?"

The little illiterate's eyes had widened in dawning horror. "No. Oh, no-"

_At last, a response!_ And it was such a satisfying one, too. "What?" I goaded her. "Are you too frightened to confront the mighty Xanos in single combat?"

Her eyes bulged. "Am I-" she spluttered. Her back stiffened. "Why, you…you…"

I bared my teeth at her pleasantly. "I?"

The flush leapt into her cheeks with astonishing alacrity. "I am not afraid of you," she spat. She leveled her sword at me. "Ready your weapon, _mage_."

To the Abyss with Ishiko's motives for pitting me against the pipsqueak. Hells take rationality and circumspection and bugger them both sideways. The girl wanted a fight? Xanos would give her one.

Deliberately, I rolled up my sleeves and flexed my fingers. Heat gathered at the ends of my fingertips. "Gladly," I replied.

Her first strike darted for my side. There was no real strength behind it. It was a feeler – a test, to see what I might do.

I sidestepped it easily. "Come now," I taunted her. "Xanos is a very large target. Surely you can do better than _that._"

The girl's nostrils flared. "I would not like to beat you too quickly," she growled, and lunged for my other side.

The swipe of her blade displaced enough air to ripple my sleeve. I stepped aside and watched the scimitar go by with meditative interest. "You missed," I said sweetly. Then I raised a hand. In some wellspring at the heart of my power, a bitter black void yawned, waiting to sap all strength and will. It was always there, waiting for doubt to creep in and despair to settle in its hooks. Those weak of will let it consume them. Xanos, on the other hand, preferred to turn it…outward. "Observe," I instructed clinically. "_This_ is how you do it."

The beam of red light reflected in the girl's pupils, a split-second before she sagged. Her sword arm trembled and drooped, too weak to hold her guard up. Comprehension followed shortly thereafter. "Coward," she snarled between clenched teeth. She tried to straighten. Her face was pale, or as close to pale as her sun-browned skin could come. "You do not have the strength to win, so you take mine?"

I spread my hands in a shrug. Fire seethed there, and a throbbing pain registered in my temples. It was an effort to draw the heat back, but it would have been even more trying to allow that damned geas to crush my skull into a powder, so… "Irrelevant. Winning is all. The rest can go hang." Then I pointed a finger. Sticky webbing shot up through the sand and wrapped itself around her legs.

The little Bedine looked down. Her eyes narrowed. Then, without a word, she flicked the tip of her scimitar disdainfully at her restraints.

The scimitar's edge was notched and bent, but it sliced through the webbing as if it were nothing but air. _A keen edge enchantment_, I thought, with some surprise. _How annoying_.

There was little time to dwell on it, however. She was coming for me again, and she appeared to have regained some of her strength, if the color in her face was any indication. This was problematic. My normal response at this point would be to set her on fire, but that was not a viable solution under the circumstances. Nevermind the unspoken rules of combat in the sparring circle - if I did anything to harm the girl, the geas on me would pop my head like a grape.

_Well, then. Time for a change of tactics._

I wore a simple iron band on the third finger of my right hand. I touched it with my thumb, twisting it around my finger, just _so_...

The shield sprung up before me a heartbeat before her scimitar tried to embed its edge between my ribs. I may have been obliged to do her no violence, but it seemed that my bloodthirsty little malefactress felt no such compunctions.

The blade thumped against thin air.

It was worth a thousand such bruises, however, just to see the look of astonishment on her face as her steel recoiled on her as if she had just hit a wall.

She seemed even more surprised when my hand closed around her still-upraised wrist, and utterly flabbergasted when I yanked her from her feet.

I had never seen a Bedine in full flight before. It was a novel experience. In her dull black robes, she looked rather like an oversized vulture - up until she hit the ground. Then she was more of an indistinct bundle of rapidly tumbling black linen and incoherent rage.

I grinned. "Given up yet?" I called mockingly.

She struggled unsteadily to her feet, breathing hard. "No," she grated, and charged again.

She struck three times in rapid succession, low-high-low. Fortunately, I still had my invisible shield to block with. It was weightless, unlike a physical shield. Like a physical shield, it was more or less tethered to my forearm, so that I had to predict where she would hit in order to move my arm to block her. Unfortunately, each blow weakened my shielding a little further, until the last blow bit into skin and opened up a welling, stinging split.

My opponent saw it and smiled. She backed away, swinging her scimitar to resettle its grip in her hand. There was something altogether too jaunty about that gesture. "First blood," she said smugly. Her eyes sparkled. "Do you yield?"

My lips peeled back from my teeth. "Like _Hells._"

She shrugged. "'Tis your skin," she said blithely, and advanced again...

…only to come up short.

My nemesis looked down sharply. Lines of webbing had been lashed securely about her wrists, effectively anchoring her to the ground.

She looked up again, and met my smirk with a snarl. "That is _it_," she erupted, and launched a furious kick at my midsection.

I had just enough presence of mind to duck, which was why her foot planted itself in my abdomen and blasted the breath out of me rather than planting itself rather lower and rendering Xanos a eunuch.

Then, while I was still trying to catch my breath, she lashed out again with a roundhouse kick to the side of my knee.

Sand was not soft. Oh, it _looked_ pillowy and forgiving, that was true, and it felt pleasantly yielding if you held it in your hand, but when it came to falling on to the sandy ground, what one became most aware of was that, in the end, sand was dirt. And _dirt_ belonged to the element of _earth, _along with other notoriously un-soft things. Like stone golems. And mountains.

Moreover, there was one characteristic which all of these things had in common - namely, that they hurt when you hit them. Especially when you hit them with your face.

An oppressive weight settled onto my back, furthering the overall impression that I had just been hit by an avalanche. A knee lodged itself firmly in my kidneys, proof positive that I needed to work on stabilizing that spell of webbing a little. It had not lasted nearly long enough.

"Yield," came a soprano snarl from somewhere above my head.

I turned my head to one side and spat out a mouthful of sand. "Go to the Abyss," I said, indistinctly.

Her response was immediate, and involved grabbing me by my still-bleeding forearm and gently but meaningfully twisting my arm behind my back. "No," she said flatly.

I spasmed in pain. "_Hellfire_, woman!" I roared. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"No," she said grimly. "Just to win." Then she twisted my arm a little further behind my back. I thought that I felt something in the joint begin to give, and tried to remember the last time someone had managed to put Xanos in such a position_. _Nothing like this had happened since…since…well, since I was thirteen and had accidentally set a stable on fire. In my defense, the farmer who owned it had not expected an adolescent half-orc to be lurking in his hay loft, and had been trying to impale me on his pitchfork at the time.

My little nemesis interrupted my thoughts by shifting her weight to my other kidney. "_Now _do you yield?" she demanded.

I tried to concentrate. She did not seem to be holding my wrist with her sword hand. She did not need that hand to fight. A slight burn would not impair her. It might not even need to burn. I would let slip just enough fire to startle her, no more-

Heat pulsed beneath my skin. The tension in my temples eased, just for a moment. _There._

The girl's shriek when the fire flared against her hand was _nothing _to the noise she made when I took advantage of her distraction and heaved her off of me. It was a cross between a feral yell and, in defiance of her usual excruciating politeness, the bitten-off beginnings of a curse.

I staggered to my feet in time to see the girl pushing herself into a crouch, wiping her mouth with a shaking hand. Her lower lip was bloodied, and she appeared to have lost her weapon in the fall. It lay several feet away from her.

I crossed the sand to stand in front of the dazed little Bedine. Deliberately, I placed one boot on top of her fallen blade. "You are disarmed," I growled. "Give up."

She looked up at me through a fall of tangled, sweaty hair. "Never," she vowed, and barreled into my legs.

The sand was no softer the second time around, and the little mongoose no less vicious.

I was a mage. I was a rational, intelligent man. I had no need for weapons. I had magic at my disposal, and would not stoop to brawling bare-handed with a woman who was less than half my-

A well-placed punch cracked across my jaw. My head snapped back. _Oh, _Hells_ with it, _I thought viciously, and threw a punch of my own. She rolled out of the way just in time.

We brawled back and forth across the sand, tumbling and grappling and spitting and cursing. I tried to throw her. She did something to my elbow which made it buckle, and went for my throat. I shoved her away. She snarled and hauled me back by the collar. I broke her grip and tried to restrain her hands to keep her from gouging out my eyeballs, only to narrowly avoid another spirited attempt to geld me.

Eventually, we fetched up against the wheel of a wagon. We paused there, panting. Somehow, I had ended up on top, with one arm across her neck. "Yield, damn you!" I roared.

She smiled. A fresh trickle of blood ran from her split lip. "Look down," she said breathlessly.

Belatedly, I felt a pricking against my belly. I looked down. The dagger she was holding looked very familiar. "Shit," I swore. "Where did you get that?"

Her smile widened. I had never seen the grave little creature smile like that before. It came as no surprise that she would only do so while threatening to gut me with my own damned knife. "From your boot."

I blinked. "How-"

"When I tackled you the first time."

_Clever girl. _"Ah," I said. I returned her smile. "In that case, look further down."

She obeyed. It was her turn to blink. "That is my belt knife," she said stupidly.

I did not remove it. Gut and gut alike, that was what Xanos always said. "Yes."

"When did you get your hands on that?"

"While you were busy trying to gouge my eyes out."

"Oh." She was silent for a moment. "Truce?" she offered.

I stared at her. This close, I could nearly count the individual lashes that shadowed her sloe eyes. I could also see the prominent bump in the bridge of that large, hawkish nose of hers. Nature, I saw, had been no kinder to her in that regard than it had been to Xanos. "Drop your - _my _- weapon first," I countered.

Her eyes narrowed. "No. Yours first."

"Hah! You expect me to trust you?"

"And you expect _me_ to trust _you_?"

I considered that. Then I grinned. "Fair enough," I admitted sagely. "On the count of three, then."

"Good. I will do the counting-"

"Are you sure you can count that high? Perhaps Xanos should do it."

"One more smart remark out of you, mage, and I _will _stab you, truce or no truce."

"Promises, promises."

"Shut _up_." She took a breath. "Now. One…"

The girl was sitting by herself, as always, on the very edge of the circle of firelight.

It was a risky place to sit. Anything might sneak up and try to attack her, there. Stingers. Bandits. A horde of the restless undead.

_Poor, unsuspecting bastards, all of them. _They had no idea what they were in for. I had bruises on my bruises. My arm still throbbed. I had a dim memory of her grabbing it and rubbing sand in my wound. I was almost certain she had done it just to hear me scream.

I grinned to myself, and stopped to study her. She was hunched forward miserably, her arms wrapped around her middle and a morose expression on her face. No doubt she was thinking of her tribe, and the probable outcome of her search - failure and death, if she was lucky. Torture and servitude, if she was not.

Most reasonable people would have given in to the inevitable and given this entire quest up as impossible, were they in her position.

_Never say impossible. _Hah! Had_ I _done so, I would still be roaming the wilds, half-mad with starvation and living in terror of that moment's inattention which would be all it would take to accidentally immolate myself - and to most likely take a few square miles of forest and a dozen or so innocent bystanders with me.

I snorted. _No, _I thought darkly_. She has only taken one innocent bystander with her._

_Oh, quit yer bellyachin' and just do what ye came to do, boy, _Drogan's voice spoke up irritably._ Let's be fair. She's earned it_.

I scowled. _Oh, very well, _I conceded grudgingly. Besides, in the eventuality that this curse could not be lifted, a few reinforcements would not be unwelcome.

Assuming, of course, that she could keep her brothers from beheading me on sight. Knowing how the Bedine were about their women's honor, I did not think they would take kindly to seeing her in the company of a half-orc. Everyone knew that half-orcs, given half a chance, would ravage any innocent woman in their company from sunup to sundown. I did not think that pointing to the various injuries she had given me would persuade them that I was in more danger from her than she was from me. Some convictions could not be shaken, even with hard evidence.

She looked up as I approached, her eyes as wide and startled as a doe's. _The mouse is back again, I see, _I mused. I wondered what would happen if I were to bait her. Would the mongoose come back out to play, or would the mouse simply squeak and dart back into her hole?

Alas, I did not have the chance to find out. At the sight of my face, the woman gasped. "Sweet spirits!" she blurted. "What happened to your eye?"

I stopped and crossed my arms over my chest, cocking an eyebrow at her. "You are the one who blackened it," I pointed out mildly. "You should know."

She flushed. One of her cheeks was painted in bruise colors, and her lower lip was swollen. "I...I apologize. I did not think I had hit you so hard," she mumbled. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat, avoiding my eyes. "I...w-was there something you wanted?"

I looked at her for a moment longer. "Yes," I said curtly, and sat. Unhurriedly, I busied myself with unrolling parchment, smoothing it over my knee, and setting up inkpot and quill. That done, I looked up, my eyes scanning our immediate surrounds for any potential eavesdroppers. There were none. Then, and only then, did I pick up my quill.

Delicately, I cradled the instrument between my forefinger and thumb and fixed the little woman with an impatient stare. "Speak," I commanded.

She goggled at me. "W-what?"

Irritation prickled along my spine. "Have you been struck deaf, girl?" I snapped. I waved the quill at her imperiously. "You wished Xanos to write a missive on your behalf. Well, spit it out. I do not have all day."

Comprehension dawned in her eyes. Still, they sparked with more than a little annoyance. "I have a name, you know."

"So you do." My voice was bland.

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Would you like a second black eye to match the first?" she challenged archly.

"That depends. Would you like me to set your hair on fire?"

Like a bird startled from a bush, a reluctant giggle escaped her. "No, thank you," she demurred politely. Then she grimaced. "My head hurts enough as it is."

"Your head? Have you seen what you did to my arm?"

She snorted. "You deserved it," she said, without an ounce of sympathy. Then, gingerly, she gathered her robes around her and inched closer, just enough to lower her voice and still be heard. "Very well. Just let me think on what to say...a-ha! I have it."

Then, softly, her voice pitched for my ears alone, Nadiya began to speak.


	27. Chapter 27

27.

I strode across the open ground towards Hlaunga, a pricking between my shoulder blades, a rolled-up carpet slung over my shoulder and a camel tagging at my heels.

It was day. We had left the caravan behind two nights before, while the others slept. I suspected that we would be followed. This was both because I knew that Ghufran did not trust me, and because I had appropriated one of her camels, along with its packs.

One never knew when some illicit merchandise might be useful. I could only hope that Ghufran felt the same when it was her illicit merchandise which had gone missing.

The carpet was particularly fine. It was patterned in shades of blue and sage, rolled into a rough cigar-shape, and appeared to be emitting a steady stream of complaints.

I could not make out the exact words through all of those muffling layers of wool, but I understood the general sentiment, which was, "This is never going to work." Possibly, there may have been a, "You idiot," in there somewhere. I would not have put any money against it. Not any of mine, in any case.

I hefted the carpet a little higher on my shoulder. "Shut up and think like a textile," I said pleasantly.

The carpet snarled at me inarticulately.

I grinned up at the sky, admiring the sunset. It really was a lovely. Such a shame that Nadiya could not see it.

Chuckling to myself, I walked on. Sand and gravel and not much else crunched quietly beneath my feet.

The Zhentarim had made effective use of their environment. They had cut blocks from the surrounding sandstone outcroppings to build a wall perhaps twelve spans high, leaving the area around the oasis bare of hiding places for several hundred feet in any direction.

The Zhents had also conveniently forgotten to remove the debris from their little masonry project. The approach to Hlaunga was littered with loose rock, much of it sharp-edged. Such treacherous footing would have severely hampered any ground-based charge and allowed the Zhentarim archers leisure to drop the first few waves of attackers – and, if an attacker did reach the wall, he would have had to split his attention between fending off Zhentarim spears while simultaneously striving not to turn himself into a wall decoration courtesy of the very profuse, very sharp iron spikes which the Zhentarim had planted in the sandstone.

Riddled with arrows, impaled on a spike, or skewered on a spear – such a bountiful array of choices the Zhentarim had to offer their enemies. No doubt there would also be caltrops to complicate any cavalry charges, and a few mages and catapults to take care of aerial assaults.

_Intelligently done. My compliments, gentlemen. And now..._

I smiled pleasantly at the gate guards, and stopped short of their meaningfully crossed spears.

..._prepare to be outsmarted._

A man emerged from a pole-and-canvas guard station. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin was chalk-white, and his face was the face of a man who had no sense of humor whatsoever. The stink of black lotus rose from him. It said quite clearly what he had been doing before I came along. "State your purpose," he said briskly.

Casually, I set down my burden. Just as casually, I leaned back and rested a booted foot on top of it. I heard a grunt.

The guard blinked. He looked down. "What was that?" he asked.

"My apologies," I said easily, and smiled. "It must have been something I ate." I straightened. "You have a market here," I said meaningfully.

The man eyed me skeptically. "You are here to trade, then?" he asked.

I looked at him a moment longer. Then, without bothering to respond, I stepped forward and flung open one of the camel's packs. I had taken some of Ghufran's merchandise with me. After catching a whiff of this guard, I had a suspicion that he might find it interesting - possibly interesting enough to let me pass freely through those gates.

The man peered inside with the air of a man expecting to find a viper, or possibly a scorpion. He paused. He glanced behind him. Then his hand snaked into the pack and out again. Something pale and crinkling was tucked beneath his breastplate. "Pass through," he said in bored tones, apparently losing all interest in my presence. "Make trouble, and it will be visited on you doubly. Understood?"

I grinned humorlessly. "Understood," I said, and I even managed not to snarl it. Master Drogan would have been proud of me.

I attracted more than a few glances as I entered the camp, from mercenaries and mages and merchants alike. No doubt I was a peculiar sight. Accustomed as they were to the presence of orcs and half-orcs among them, it was rare to see one dressed as a mage. Most were grunts, slaves, or simple mercenaries.

Possibly they considered me delusional. Possibly I lingered in their minds. Possibly I should have divested myself of my robes and dragged my knuckles as I walked, but I would be damned and damned again if I pretended to be less than I was just to satisfy their low expectations of me.

I accepted the stares. Then I summarily dismissed them. Fools would be fools. All that their stares meant was that I could not do what I needed to do by being circumspect - I would be noticed no matter what I did. The best I could do was to take advantage of and redirect their attention in a way that was more useful to me.

It took some explanation and some haranguing of allegedly innocent passersby, but in the inner ring of the camp I finally found a low sandstone structure that purported to be an inn.

Inside it, I found an innkeeper in it who decided that he liked the color of my money more than he disliked the color of my skin. To that end, I poured enough gold across his counter to elicit a wonderfully embarrassing display of servility.

Then I commandeered the largest suite of rooms in the inn, loudly complained about the accommodations ordered that the filthy carpets already there be removed, the floors be swept, and the beds be aired, and demanded that food and wine be sent up. Then I commandeered a porter to find a stable for the camel and carry its packs to the room for me.

I did not, however, relinquish the carpet. It must have looked peculiar, but then, I was not trying to convey the impression that I was entirely normal, only rich, arrogant, and strange.

The innkeep trotted after me, wringing his hands. "May I call my porter to help you with that, as well?" he offered hopefully. He had excellent control of his facial muscles. Not once did he indicate, by so much as a twitch of an eyelash, that he might have thought it strange that a guest at his establishment might see fit to bring their own carpet.

I would have laughed out loud at the man's dilemma, but that might have ruined the ruse. Instead, I cast a distasteful glance at the porter in question. "Only if he pays for the damage he will do to it with those filthy hands of his," I sneered. "This is an _oasis,_ man. Could you not find a few buckets of water to throw on your employees?"

The man bent into an obsequious little half-bow. "I will see to it immediately," he promised.

I sniffed. "See that you do. I am not paying you to abuse my sinuses so egregiously."

The man bobbed his head. "Of course." He opened the door for me. I brushed past him regally. "I will be performing very delicate experiments this evening," I went on pleasantly. "I expect that the premises will remain uncontaminated by any intrusions." I smiled. "I would hate for there to be any…accidents."

The man bowed again. "You will not be disturbed, m'lord."

I adjusted the collar of my robes, ostensibly pleased. "Excellent."

The rooms were large, cool, and extravagantly appointed for what amounted to a minor trading outpost which did double duty as a covert military encampment. The walls were plaster-over-sandstone, and because this was a Zhentarim place and had nothing to do with Bedine, the silver-backed wall sconces were mage-enchanted and cast a steady golden glow against the white plaster. There had once been enough carpets for a bazaar strewn all over the floor, but now the floor was as bare as the walls. The windows were tall and deep-silled. Filmy curtains rippled in the evening breeze, and brocade draperies were tied back with velvet ropes. I had no idea of the furniture's provenance, but it was heavy and old and had the look of something which had been plundered from a small palace somewhere.

It was all remarkably civilized. Under other circumstances, I might have liked to stay for a while and soak up the luxury.

It was only a pity that I had just smuggled a little piece of pure desert barbarism in. Such a sin would not endear me to my hosts, I was sure.

Grinning, I dropped the carpet to the floor – not particularly gently, because there was a throbbing ache in what I had previously been thinking of as my uninjured shoulder and I would be damned if I wouldn't return the favor and give _her _a few contusions to cope with – and unrolled it with a snap and a flourish.

A small, furious Bedine woman tumbled out, rolled to her feet in a surprising display of athleticism, whipped her sword from its sheathe, and snapped it up to my throat. _Again_.

We formed an interesting and absolutely stationary tableau for the span of several seconds.

Then Nadiya blinked. "Oh," she said, in tones of mild surprise. She took her sword away from my neck. "It is you. I beg your pardon."

"I commend you on your excellent reflexes," I said drily. I resisted the urge to feel my throat for new nicks. "Now, would you kindly put that thing away? And keep your voice down," I added, though I hardly needed to say it. For a woman otherwise so uniquely unsuited to subterfuge, she had an excellent conspirator's whisper.

The girl cast a wary glance around, seeming to take in her surroundings now that the initial alarm had left her. She lowered her sword, but did not sheathe it. "Where are we?" she asked. She kept her voice very low. If not for my superior hearing, I would have been hard-pressed to understand her.

"In Hlaunga. At a very nice inn, actually. It is costing me a small fortune in gold."

"Hmm." Nadiya pursed her lips. "I suppose it would be very silly of me to ask if we are safe here."

My grin widened. "Yes," I said. "As a matter of fact, it would."

She tried to level an annoyed glance at me, found herself glaring at my chest, lifted her chin, and made a determined attempt to glower up at me from beneath her lashes instead. Briefly – and with a peculiar spark of hilarity lighting somewhere in my chest - I wondered if I should do the gentlemanly thing and offer the woman a stepladder so that she could glare at me better, or if that would only lead to me being gutted like a trout. "That is not very reassuring," my little companion complained. "Can you not-" She raised a hand and wiggled her fingers vaguely. "You know. Do something to hide us?"

"My goodness gracious me!" I said in tones of mock astonishment. "Are you hypothetically condoning the use of magic, my little savage?"

She scowled. "You are a very large, annoying person."

"Hah! But am I largely annoying, or annoyingly large?"

"Both!" Nadiya glared up at me. Her lips quivered strangely, for half an instant. "And that was _not _funny."

"Yes, it was."

"It was not."

"It was hilarious. _You _just have no sense of humor."

"And _you_ have a very inappropriate sense of humor."

I considered that. "This is a crime of which Xanos has been accused before, yes," I admitted flippantly.

Rage seemed to overcome Nadiya's typical standoffishness as she lunged for the lapels of my robe and clutched them in a white-knuckled grip. "How. Did you. Get past. The guard?" she demanded, straining the words out between her clenched teeth. Something in the coal-black burn of her eyes said that there would be dire consequences if I continued to toy with her.

Therefore, I continued to toy with her. Master Drogan had always said that I enjoyed playing with fire. He might even have been right. "I walked," I said at last, sweet as honey.

She half-raised her hands and clenched her fingers, as if dreaming of throttling me. "If you do not give me a straight answer, I swear-" she growled.

At that, I did laugh. "You will do what?" I asked. Challengingly, I arched an eyebrow. "You will curse me?"

Nadiya's face blanched. Then it flushed. "No," she said shortly.

I could not have explained why a fit of honesty overcame me in that moment. Perhaps it was because I had never seen a creature look as thoroughly downtrodden as she did in that moment. She looked positively hangdog with remorse and dejection, and those brown eyes of hers did nothing to diminish the impression of a dog that had just been kicked.

I bit back a sigh and frowned down at the idiot girl's hands. "You are wrinkling my robe," I observed irritably.

Nadiya blinked. "What?" she said blankly. Then, belatedly, she seemed to notice her death-grip on my lapels. Flushing, she relinquished it. "Oh," she said. Feebly, she made some attempt to straighten it. Then she turned an even darker shade of cherry red and stepped away, awkwardly clasping her hands behind her back. "Er. I beg your pardon."

Two apologies in one day? _Be still my heart_. In all fairness, however, even one apology was more than Xanos generally heard from most people. "Before leaving the caravan, I helped myself to some of Ghufran's more recreational merchandise," I explained grudgingly. "As luck would have it, the guard on duty had an appreciation for the product."

Nadiya's face traded abject misery for abject confusion. Her forehead wrinkled. "I do not understand," she said slowly. "What recreational merchandise?"

Gods help me, I was in the company of an innocent. "Narcotics, little girl," I snapped. "Black lotus. The drug of choice for those who would rather create their own realities than live in this one."

The girl's lips shaped a syllable. "Wh-" She trailed off. Her dark eyes went wide. "Oh. You _bribed_ him."

She sounded surprised. I rolled my eyes. "What should I have done?" I retorted. "Challenged him to single combat? A round of arm wrestling? A riddling contest?"

She gave me a very peculiar look. "No," she said scornfully. "He is our enemy. Worse, he is a Zhentarim dog. As such, meeting him in a fair fight would do him an honor he does not deserve." Her voice took on a note of mild surprise. "Your actions were…appropriate."

I could not believe that a woman so apparently deranged could say such an eminently _rational _thing. "And if he dies in a gutter because I have enabled his addiction?" I insisted.

Nadiya shrugged. It was a strange gesture, as placid and indifferent as the moon. "We all pay a price for our decisions," she said simply. Absently, her hand caressed the hilt of her scimitar. "Perhaps that will be his."

I paused. She was full of surprises, this one. "I…am beginning to see some merits in Bedine philosophy," I said at last, unable to rid my voice of a note of bemusement.

She did not smile, but her face did soften slightly, which transformed her demeanor to merely solemn from near-terminally grave. "Thank you," she said with a peculiarly straightforward politeness. That made two apologies and one thank you in the span of a day. Then she folded her hands in her lap and looked up at me expectantly. "Now. What do we do next?"

As if her words had prompted it to offer a gentle reminder of the reality of the situation, I felt a tightness in my temples and shoulders – the geas, putting the screws to its bearer.

My mood turned sour. "I will search for information," I said curtly.

The woman's wits had not, unfortunately, been dulled by her time as a textile. She did not miss my use of the personal pronoun. "And I?" she demanded angrily. She crossed her arms over her chest. "What will _I_ do?"

I felt my molars begin to grind together. Suddenly, I was irritated beyond measure. She had wanted my help, even cursed me for it - and now she questioned it? "You have no talent for information gathering," I growled. "You will stay here."

Nadiya's eyes went very wide indeed. "What?" my little malefactress erupted. "You expect me to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you-"

"I expect you to do nothing," I interrupted sharply. Just as sharply, I turned on my heel and began to pace. If I stood still, I thought I would burst into flames where I stood. "You wished to come here, but you may still leave, if you like," I tossed over my shoulder acidly. "I warn you, though, that if you allow yourself to be seen at all you will most likely draw every eye in the oasis. You might even make some new friends." I spun to a stop and leaned forward, speaking with mocking sweetness. "Of course, these _friends_ are likely to do the same to you as they have done to your kin, if they do not rape or murder you outright for having had the gall to breach their security measures. The Zhentarim are not known to be forgiving, especially when they think that they have a Bedine spy on their hands."

A singularly mulish expression settled over her face. "I do not care," she grated. "I am not staying here. I refuse to stay here while you-"

"Oh, you are free to risk it, if you wish," I interrupted again. Then I smiled thinly, and issued her a deep and deeply ironic bow. "The decision, my imperious little mistress, is yours," I purred.

Expressions chased one another across Nadiya's face, painted there so nakedly that it was almost possible to watch her entire thought process. First came anger. Then came resentment. A little further on, she found hesitation and grudging acknowledgement, followed by a wary sort of thoughtfulness which said that she would consider what I said even as she weighed the possibility of kicking me in the kneecap for it.

Finally, the woman's resolved itself into a look of dour determination. "Go," she said abruptly, and plopped down in the middle of her carpet – though she did not, I noticed, relinquish her sword. She seemed to be laboring under the delusion that the thing was not, as any sane person might have believed, a tool separate from her body, but rather an extra appendage which just happened to be made of steel instead of flesh.

A flicker of fire filled my head. "Gladly," I retorted, and yanked the door open onto the – blessedly – empty corridor.

It was a relief to shut the door on that woman's face. There had been a cornucopia of terms to choose from in describing her expression. _Sulky_ was one of them_. Godsdamned hellishly obstinate little tart_ was another – though, to be fair, it would not be very accurate to call such a sheltered young woman a tart. I doubted that she even had the barest inkling of an idea of what a tart _was_.

_Information, Xanos, _I reminded myself abruptly._ What you need now is information. _

I leaned against the closed door and tried to marshal my thoughts.

Because this was the nearest Zhentarim outpost, this was the most likely arrival point for her royal pain in the arse's tribe. Her interrogation of the dying asabi was corroboration of that fact.

Assuming, therefore, that this was the logical place to find them, there existed two possibilities: either that they had already passed through, or that they had yet to arrive.

If they had already passed through, they may or may not have been sold and dispersed. This was problematic. It meant I would have to find out where they had gone.

If, however, they had yet to arrive, I would have an entirely different set of problems on my hands. Firstly, I would have to find some excuse to linger here in the meantime. Secondly, I would either have to bribe enough mercenaries to spring the new arrivals from their pen and escort them home – which would bring along yet _another _set of problems, such as the contingent of Zhentarim slavers which would follow hot on Xanos's heels – or I would have to similarly empty my pockets to buy some fifty or so Bedine off of the Zhentarim myself.

The bribes in the former case would, of necessity, be simultaneously large and circumspect. No matter what wealth I had lined my pockets with since the fall of Undrentide, I could not outcompete the Black Network on price. The costs in the latter case depended on how valuable Nadiya's relatives happened to be.

That, however, was a concern for the future. My first action would be to sniff out any mention of a recent or anticipated Bedine presence in the pens. I was a half-orc. I doubted that I would have any trouble convincing someone that I was looking to purchase a few slaves for nefarious and possibly indecent purposes. Prejudice would work in my favor, for once.

With that thought in mind, I smoothed my mantle, checked that I had no threads coming loose, put on my most haughty expression, and went to express my interest in the slave trade.


	28. Chapter 28

28.

I stood at the crossroads in that bastion of international commerce known as the Black Network, and wondered if what the world _really _needed was for the gods to annihilate every living thing on this sphere. If pressed, I would allow them to leave the cockroaches. It might even have been an improvement.

To wit:

On one side of the crossroads stood the marketplace of goods, where men and women bartered and bickered even as the night-time shadows began to pool between the market stalls.

On the other side, a marketplace of a different sort of good: the slave pens, all of them wire-fenced, rank with the stink of shit and fear, and teeming with creatures best not described as sentient. To do so would have been a cruel reminder of what they once had been.

Oh, the ones inside the fence were not dead – not yet. But they were trapped and powerless and at the questionable mercy of others, which by my estimation was a fate far, far worse than death.

A gallows loomed from the dusty ground in between the pens and the stalls, blood-stained and hulking and impossible to miss. From it dangled three corpses. Two of the corpses were recognizable as having once been men. The third was unrecognizable as anything but maggot food, and was close to oozing from its noose like an overripe fruit from a singularly gruesome tree.

_Poor bastards. _They should have been taken down long since. Not only was it a public health hazard to leave corpses out in the open like that, but it reeked of a clumsy attempt at intimidation.

Had those men been hanged as a warning, or a promise? No matter. Either way, the Zhentarim were fools, because they had forgotten one key thing: The stick was nothing without the carrot to take away its sting. Fear was an effective tool for inspiring obedience in a populace, yes, but it could not be used alone, and its use could not be sustained indefinitely. There was a point beyond which fear gave way to desperation, and the mortal capacity for suffering reached its limit. At that point, it was wise for those in power to remember one thing: yes, it was true that sheep were stupid and fearful. Yes, it was true that sheep were weak and easily led.

But it was _also_ true that sheep always outnumbered their shepherd. It was best not to let them remember that.

I cast an assessing eye on the so-called sheep in their pens as I passed.

Most of them looked as if they had been in there for many days – time enough to build up a layer of filth and shed every scrap of fat on their bones. None of them looked particularly Bedine. They were all far too pale, though it was hard to be certain of species or gender beneath all of that grime, much less detect the finer variations in skin color.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a man sink down against the fence. There was something frail and infantile about the way he clasped his knees to his chest. There was very little left of dignity in the gesture.

Something in my gut twisted painfully. Perhaps it was the stink. It felt as if something had crawled up my nose and died.

Without breaking stride, I bounded up the steps to the auction platform. My robes swirled in an acceptably dramatic way. Heads turned. People took note. That was good. I was obviously a mage, or at least pretending to be one. No mage in his right mind would have anything to do with any of the Bedine. Therefore, I was the _last _man anyone would suspect of planning the rescue of a few score of those godsdamned ingrateful illiterates.

There were men on the platform. From the whips they wore coiled at their belts, I judged them to be the shepherds of this sorry lot of flesh.

I honed in on a man who was leaning against the podium. In addition to the whip he wore, he also wore a heavy mantle with a loop of gold slung across his chest which said 'merchant' or at least 'man of local prestige' to me. From the man's indolent air, he was also in desperate need of some sort of diversion.

And, because I have always been such a genial man, I was only too happy to provide.

He had half-turned to see what all of the commotion was about when I collared him by the back of the neck, smiled pleasantly, and boomed, "Good evening! How can you help me today?"

"Wha-" The man turned to look at me fully. Then he flinched away, almost reflexively. My smile was obviously having its usual effect.

I spoke before he had the chance to gather his wits. "I am sorry," I said in tones of solicitous concern. I allowed my smile to widen, for full effect. "Did Xanos say that too quickly for you? No matter. We still start again." I let go of the man's collar. He took two staggering steps away before righting himself against the podium. "I am in search of a few good men. Do you happen to have any on offer?"

The man's face froze into a rictus of intrigued horror. Knowing what kinds of rumors there were about the bizarre and indiscriminate sexual appetites of orcs and their close relatives, it must have been a terrible thing to imagine what I might have had in mind to do to those few good men.

The mental images appeared to shock him into coherence. He straightened. "The auctions are over for the day," he said stiffly. He glanced at my face. "Sir," the man added. Somehow, he still managed to inject a measure of disdain into his voice - the insouciant little son of a whore.

My smile faded. I drew myself up to my full height and glared down at the man. "Ah? Is that so?" I asked dulcetly. "In that case, tomorrow I will take my business elsewhere. As a matter of fact," I added, half-turning abruptly as if to leave, "-as repayment for your helpfulness, I think I will will tell every trader between here and Blacksands of the courtesy you have just shown me-"

"Wait." The gentleman appeared to be grappling with some kind of internal struggle. "I am afraid that our current stock is not…prime," he said at last, his voice strained. He lifted a hand and held it out, palm-up, to the pens. "As you can see."

I snorted. With apparent reluctance, I turned back to the man, folding my arms over my chest. "I can see that it is pathetic," I said scathingly. "I thought that this was an outpost of some significance." I sniffed. "It appears that I was mistaken."

My victim's face had assumed the strained blankness of a man who was torn between professional greed and the agony of treating with an obnoxious customer. "Our trade has unfortunately been constrained by the late drought in this region, but it has been reviving excellently. We expect new shipments to arrive very soon. If you will return in a few days-"

"I am a busy man, and have business of my own to attend to," I snapped. "Do you expect me to wait in this mudhole while you stack a few sickly halflings one on top of the other and try to foist them off on me as one able-bodied man?"

The man's lips went a trifle bloodless, so firmly did he compress them. He turned. "Honored Tarsin," he addressed a man all in black who stood not far from the slaver's pulpit. "What shipments have your brothers told you to expect?"

The black-robed man who approached us wore no whip, though he did wear a smile like a razor's edge - and, as he drew nearer, I saw that he also wore a curious sort of gauntlet. Black leather, it was, and backed in blackened metal.

I managed not to stiffen in surprise, though I was forced to clench my jaw against a telltale intake of breath. _A Banite, _I thought grimly. Delightful_. _I was going to have to tread with care.

Fussily, the cleric pulled a small leather-bound ledger out of a pocket in his robes and began to turn over the pages with the fingertips of his ungauntleted hand. "They are shepherding a few lost souls from our post in Immilmar," he replied calmly. "Rashemi, for the most part. Quite strong. Quite able. They do require some...encouragement, however." He smiled his barbed little smile. "They are not accustomed to service."

I grunted. "Berserkers, then?"

"A handful," the priest agreed. "They are expected to arrive within the next two nightfalls, weather permitting." He clapped the book shut in one hand and slipped it back into his pocket. "Will it be sufficient to your purposes?" he asked pleasantly.

"It may. What state are they in?"

"Hale enough. Of course, they will be tended to upon arrival here, should it be necessary." The Banite sketched a deferential little half-bow, though I noticed that his eyes remained on my face, and that peculiar little smile remained on his. "We take full responsibility for any damage incurred to the merchandise during shipment."

Bane was nearly a match for Loviatar when it came to granting the most agonizing of healing powers to his clergy. They would close a wound well enough, but you would suffer at least twice the pain in the healing of it than you had suffered in the receiving. I would not have liked to have been one of those Rashemi. "What else?" I asked shortly. I swept a hand out towards the cages, my lip curling. "Do not tell me that this is all that you have. I have not come here to be offered Rashemi leavings and sickly elves."

"Hmm." The priest took out his book again. "Two days ago we received a large assortment of Bedine," he noted mildly, "-but there were few men among them, and in any case they have been claimed and sent on to Orofin. It is possible that their buyer intends to put them on the block there." He tapped his ledger thoughtfully with a gauntleted forefinger. "Alas, the price will no doubt be higher than you would have paid here-"

"Claimed?" I barked a disbelieving laugh. "A tribe of those useless savages? By whom?"

"By Aglast Thimm," the auctioneer replied. He raised an eyebrow. "Though I would not repeat his name too loudly, were I you." Judging by his expression, his counsel was inspired more by passive-aggressive malice than by the spirit of true helpfulness. "That one has very keen ears, and does not like to make his movements known."

"If he does not like to make his movements known, he should not have taken the only able-bodied men to grace this block," I retorted scornfully.

The priest stirred. "On that score, master mage, you may rest assured that you have missed no opportunities," he said, the very picture of mercantile helpfulness. "The group was predominantly female, with some children, and those few men who were among them were not…well." He shrugged. "They had obviously resisted their transfer."

"And so he took them all, down to the last infant? Bah! A tragic waste of coin," I said irritably. Gears of thought spun rapidly in my brain, clicking away like the guts of a Gondar clock. "Your handlers should have taken the women and let the rest fall in the desert. It would still have been a net loss, but at least he would have fewer to feed."

The man's smile did not waver. "We do not question our buyers' priorities," he said, smoothly diverting the subject into safer channels. "Certainly Magister Thimm has saved us the trouble of placing the more…difficult saleables." From somewhere, he produced a quill pen, and held it over his ledger expectantly. "May we know where to contact you upon arrival of the Immilmar shipment?" he asked.

"No," I said shortly. Enough customers here did not leave records of their stay. One more would not raise any eyebrows, and I would not leave such a trail behind me. "I will contact you."

The man smiled and put his little quill away. "Of course," he agreed, and issued another bow. "Until tomorrow."

I returned the bow with a curt nod, and spun on my heel to leave that stinking hellhole. There existed the possibility that the merchants' quarter might offer further leads. If not, at least the ambiance would be less...grating. I thought I could feel the eyes of the slaves on my back, though surely that was only the product of a deranged imagination. They had no reason to hope. I could do nothing for them.

Speculations tumbled through my head as I walked. I herded them neatly into their separate piles, and from there I drew a few conclusions.

Drogan had been a Harper. He had not spoken much of his days in the organization, but he _had_ had a great deal to say about the Zhentarim.

During our conversations, Drogan had mentioned some of the most august and dangerous members of the Zhentarim hierarchy. This Aglast Thimm did not ring a bell.

That left me with two possibilities.

One: That Thimm occupied a low rung on the ladder of Zhentarim advancement.

And two: Thimm was quite highly ranked indeed, but was circumspect enough to have avoided Harper notice thus far.

I would have liked to hope that the first possibility was the reality, but only fool assumed the best and left himself unprepared for the worst. It was best to assume that I was dealing with a serpent in the brush, and to equip myself with a vial of antivenin and a pair of stout boots before advancing.

I had not come away from that exchange entirely ignorant, however. A large group of Bedine women had been in those slave pens. It beggared belief to presume that two such groups would have passed through within such a short time and so soon after Nadiya's own tribe had gone missing.

In all likelihood, then, I had just found their trail - and it led to Orofin.

_Orofin. _I had not heard that name often. Few people ventured there. Once known as the great port city of Orolin when this region had been an inland sea, Orofin was now a monster-choked ruin. Parts of it, however, were still occupied – mostly by those who did not wish a visit from the Bedine, for whom the city was considered to be cursed, and therefore taboo. Minus the superstitious elements, it was even a reasonable conclusion to arrive at. The city was full of Talonite blightlords, beholders, lamia, and other unsavory things. It had even been rumored that, when Netheril fell, the earthquakes and upheavals had so shattered the city that rifts and tunnels into the Underdark had opened beneath it, peopling the city with elements even more unsavory than those to which the Bedine were accustomed.

To the Zhentarim, then, it was likely quite comfortable. Homey, even. As long as they could keep their portion of the city secured, the walls would shelter them from the desert and its denizens and hide their doings from general scrutiny.

Of course, the risks of the place meant that the Zhentarim would keep a large and heavily armed force stationed there. Smuggling Nadiya into Orofin would be challenging. I could not continue to hide her, though I thought that perhaps I might be able to disguise her.

I strode into the marketplace, still deep in thought. I did not worry about clearing a path through the crowd. There were few people about at this hour, and in any case I had never had much difficulty with crowds, especially at night. At Master Drogan's house I had been informed that my eyes tended to glow sometime after sunset as my vision adjusted to the low light of evening. I had never noticed it, but the way in which these little humans glanced at my face and then scattered to either side suggested that the others may have been on to something.

Behind the row of stalls nearest the gallows, some tents had been pitched.

Where they cast their shadows, something moved.

I slowed, narrowing my eyes. There was just enough light in my surroundings to rob me of true night vision, but on one count there was little doubt: something was or had very lately been lurking in the shadows.

Many people had tried to kill Xanos. Most of them were dead. Those who were not dead most likely _still_ wanted to kill Xanos, having been thwarted the first time and having therefore developed a red-hot grudge.

Xanos did not know why so many people wanted to kill him. Perhaps it was his ineffable charm, the value of which consistently eluded some poor, unenlightened souls.

In any case, I had long since developed a healthy dose of paranoia – a knack, if you will, for knowing when the next in line to plant a dagger in my back was busy sizing up the space between my shoulder blades.

I had no sense of that here, but that was no reassurance. I was being watched. _That,_ I was certain of.

_How sweet. _Somebody wanted to play with me! Pity that I could not be certain who it was, or what game we were playing, or why.

No matter. I could always guess. There were several suspects to choose from. Or I could always simply make a public nuisance of myself to garner as much attention as possible and then lay a trap at the threshold of my room and wait to see who triggered it. Or I could set the tents on fire and see who came running out. Or perhaps…

An upraised voice nearly made me leap out of my skin. "Excuse me!" it brayed. "Master mage? A word, if you ple-"

I spun, fire flaring to my hands...

...to see a man stumbling back from me so quickly that he nearly fell on his arse. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, and lifted his empty hands defensively. He was one of those with the whips at their belts, but his manner was so meek that it was almost obsequious. "Peace, Magister. I didn't mean to startle you."

I gritted my teeth. With an effort of will and a reluctant flicker, the fire sank back into my skin. Deliberately, I straightened and adjusted the hang of my robe. It was that or murder the man for nearly giving me a heart attack. "Then what _did_ you want?" I growled.

"Just a word, Magister. I couldn't help but overhear your conversation." The man eyed my robes. Even in the fading light, the thread-of-gold glittered. It seemed to aid him in reaching a decision. "And, well, I can't offer much in the way of strong backs for your trade, but if you're in need of saleable goods," and here a coy smile flashed across the man's face, "-my brother-in-law might have something for you."

I examined the man curiously. "And what could he have that might interest me?"

"Gold. Goods from afar. He and I work together, time and again." He spread his hands. "No more can I say. It could cost me my head, sir, and if it's all the same to you, your custom isn't worth finishing-" He nodded his head towards the gallows. "-up there."

That prompted a short laugh. "And how can I trust that this is not merely a bizarre attempt at an ambush?" I asked drily.

The man eyed me anew. "If I try that, I'll draw Cyric's gaze for certain," he answered fervently. He shook his head. "Look, his is the last stall towards the olive grove. Pass your eye over his wares, 'tis all I ask."

I paused. "Very well," I said at last, magnanimously. I would be wary, but neither would I look a gift horse in the mouth. I had no particular leads, and a merchant connected with the slavers might have more information - and be more willing to disburse it - than other men. "I will consider it."

The man smiled, seeming much relieved. He bowed, far more deeply than his superiors. "Much indebted, good master," he said, and hurried back to his post.

The last stall towards the olive grove was a haphazard thing. When I saw it, I momentarily mistook it for a trash heap.

On further inspection, however, there turned out to be a certain method to the madness. Dented pots and broken glass and frayed lengths of hempen rope lay all atangle with shining copper pots and blown glass figurines and, looped on a peg just behind a bundle of dead myrhh, I thought I saw a slender coil of elven rope. Torn sacks of grain spilled their guts into a pile of what looked to be fine Sembian silks. On the counters, the tawdry glow of cheap silver was jumbled together with the mellower sheen of heavy, solid cuffs and collars and bars of the real stuff.

All of the finer objects were small, portable items - clothes, jewelry, that sort of thing. It was the kind of merchandise one might expect to see if, say, a slave driver happened to strip a few belongings from the slaves under his guard without mentioning it to his superiors and then passed the items along to his brother-in-law, a merchant of mysteriously modest means.

There were two men behind the counter. One was fat and balding and had eyes as bright and beady as a bird's. The other was tall and gaunt and, to further the ornithological comparisons, looked like nothing so much as a stork after the stork had had its beak in a barrel of brandy for a few tendays straight.

The fat one looked up as I approached. He smiled. "Magister," he greeted me with a tug of his forelock. "How can I help you?"

I leaned against the counter and folded my arms. "I was under the impression that my presence here would come as a boon to _you_," I remarked.

He gave me a strange look. Then, at once, he smiled. "Ah," he said. "You have met my dearest brother-in-law."

"By my understanding, _brother-in-law_ is a term which follows the word _dearest_ only slightly less often than does _mother-in-law_."

"Ah, but seeing as my wife only has one brother, he does not have to be dear to be dearest."

"Hah." My lips parted in a grin. "Well said." I straightened and unfolded my arms. "However, if it is banter you are selling, I can always find that elsewhere - and less dearly. Unless there is something else-"

The man chuckled. "Oh, my brother-in-law did not mislead you." He made as if to reach below the counter. Then he hesitated. "May I?"

I marshaled a flow of power and held it at the ready. Lazily, I smiled and flexed my fingers. "Please."

A bed of tattered black velvet emerged from beneath the counter. Gold gleamed against it. "I acquired these not long ago," the man explained. His face and voice went carefully blank, but for the birdlike glitter of his eyes. "Some savages ran afoul of our scouts. These were...recovered from the fallen."

_Hark!_ Was that the sound of Tymora re-lacing her britches that I had heard? For once, it seemed, she had chosen to smile on Xanos rather than piss on him. "I see," I said out loud. I held up a set of heavy gold rings, mounted with more carets' worth of topaz and amethyst than I had the eye to measure. "These are in good condition," I observed clinically. "If they were taken from corpses, the corpses must have been fresh."

"We do not know the particulars," his storkish companion spoke up. In his haste, he nearly fumbled over a stack of cracked glass jars. Why they had been neatly stacked was anyone's guess. Most of them looked close to shattering at a touch. "Those that made it here were in good enough condition," he added, and shot his friend a warning glare.

The other man laughed. "Oh, aye, that they were," he said drily. He ran a hand over his bald head and sighed lustily. "There was that one girl-"

His companion jerked his head. "Hsst," he said urgently. "Mind yourself-"

The fat merchant rolled his eyes. "Oh, you mind _your_ self," he retorted. "There is no harm in speaking of her-"

The lift of the other man's eyebrow was eloquently skeptical. "There's harm enough if the poisoner hears of your flapping lips," he argued.

"Hah! That one? That one won't mind a bit, even if he does hear me." The merchant waved a dismissive hand. "Aglast Thimm is a serpent, for certain, but he's a serpent who'll smile to hear word of him spread if the word persuades his rivals to tread more lightly."

"'Tis your throat," his friend said sourly. He went back to stacking jars, with the air of a man who had done all he could to warn the fools before him and only hoped that none of the blood or guts that were sure to start flying actually landed on his shoes. "If it swells shut one of these eves after you've had your dinner, I hope you hark well on my words – right before you finish choking to death."

The fat merchant smiled benignly. "I will do so, and gladly, if that occurs, my friend, but I don't think I'll have the need." He turned to me. "What do you think, master mage?" he asked suddenly. "Will it suit Thimm for us to gossip, or should we still our lips a spell?"

I shrugged. "I do not know," I said. "I do not know the man. If you are asking in the abstract, however, the gossip may suit him, if he is able to steer it," I said. "Many men have tried to turn the power of rumor to their benefit, through the ages. Some have succeeded. Some have not."

The man subjected me to a curious stare. "A student of history, are you?"

"A student of many things," I said agreeably. I did not elaborate on what things those were. My wandering eye fell on a cuff of hammered gold. The cuff was narrow, made for a fine-boned wrist, but the gold was as heavy as sin. It was a rich piece - fit for a woman of status. "Was this one of theirs, as well?" I asked abruptly. I turned it over. "The craftsmanship is notable."

"So was the lady wearing it," the merchant said glibly. He grinned. "Getting a bit long in the tooth for my tastes, but, oh, master mage, would that you'd gotten an eyeful of that bone structure-"

"'Twas not her bone structure that so held your eye, I would wager," his companion said sourly.

"I'll have you know that I happen to have a very keen eye for the finer aspects of feminine beauty."

"Then why did you turn that keen eye of yours on her teats?"

"Because those happened to be two of her finer aspects." The fat man grinned even more expansively. Then he rolled his eyes. "You could not have paid me to take her, though," he added sourly. "Too stuck up by half. She'd fain look down her nose at you than lay on her back for you."

Obviously, some of Nadiya's relatives were much taller than she was. The only way she would ever have been able to look down her nose at a grown man was if she had gotten him down on the ground. Abruptly, I reached a decision. "I will take it," I said, and closed my hand around the cuff. I smirked. "Perhaps it might sweeten the disposition of some other pretty thing."

In a demonstration of rare tact, the merchant opted not to mention that, for what I claimed to have in mind, I might have been better off buying the mine where this had come from.

His compatriot did not display the same level of tact. "You might have better luck with the lotus. Thimm," he said, and made a sign of warding, "-had that fine young filly of his full to the gills with it, and she hardly protested a thing."

I snorted. "That seems an excessive measure to collar a pretty little girl," I observed mildly, and again Drogan might even have been proud of me for it, because I had always been blessed with an active imagination and now it was throwing up images – aided, in part, by some of the things only a half-orc boy on the fringes of human society might have seen - of what a sufficiently conscienceless man might do to a young girl who was barely lucid and thoroughly under his power.

I was no saint. My father had most likely been a beast, and it was only be some strange, black luck that my mother had had only a passing acquaintance with reality and did not seem to remember how she had conceived me. I had even lived as a beast myself for a time, or at least something close to it. I had had to fend for myself after Mother died. Her power, unpredictable as it was, had protected us. Once she was gone, those fools at home had remembered how much they feared and reviled magic. My own emerging power had not helped matters. I had been forced to flee and live hand-to-mouth in the wild. It had not been pretty.

Nonetheless, I had survived. Scrabbling, fighting, clawing for every inch of ground, I had done what was necessary to live and learn and cultivate enough power that I would never be forced to live like that again.

Drogan had had a strange faith in me. He had thought that I was a good man. I myself was not so sure. This was not a world for mercy - either the giving of it or the receiving. It was a world where those who lived by the rules became the victims of those who did not.

There were still some things, however, that I would not do.

The two men must have seen something in my eyes, because they shifted their weight and exchanged glances and took two wary half-steps back in the choreography of sudden caution.

I took in a breath. The air was warm, but it was cool enough compared to my blood. _That_ was boiling. "If she was as young as you say," I said, and hoped the edge to my voice might be mistaken for mockery, "-she cannot have put up much of a fight."

The fat man hesitated. Then he shrugged, and spoke quietly. "Might be he likes them pliant."

"Aye, well, to each his own entertainments, eh?" the other remarked nervously.

I smiled grimly. "And entertainers," I added.

The cuff cost me dearly, but I had no more stomach for conversation, and in any case it may have been coin well-spent. If my little charge recognized it, it would be added confirmation that the captured tribe had, indeed, been hers.

What remained was to find them - and to understand why this Thimm would have dug so deeply into his pockets as to acquire the entirety of what that cleric would have euphemistically referred to as 'the Bedine shipment'.

Unfortunately, Xanos's damnably agile mind had already given him the answer.

The Zhentarim seldom if ever performed any act that was not calculated to gain them some advantage. The men and women of Nadiya's tribe were not being kept alive for their own benefit.

They were being kept alive as insurance.

Ghufran had been right. Bedine mages of all stripes were valuable creatures. The scattered wild magic of the Anauroch and the vestiges of Netherese blood in their veins made them potentially very powerful indeed. Moreover, they knew their fellow Bedine. They knew the ways of the desert. And, to a captured sorceress, there would be no blood more gladly – and more bitterly - spilt than the blood of the kinsmen who had abandoned her to her fate.

_A young girl, full to the gills with black lotus_. Nadiya had said that her sister was a girl of twelve summers. That would match with what the merchants had seen. And, if what the man had said was true, Nadiya's sister would be an addict before long. With her family hostage to her good behavior and Aglast Thimm playing purveyor and potential executioner all at once, the girl hadn't a chance. She would acquiesce, or she would die, either from withdrawal or from her captor's tender mercies - though not before watching her family die first.

I stalked through the camp, my eyes scouring the shadows for my unknown follower and my blood seething uncomfortably.

I was rapidly developing a violent aversion to Hlaunga. I would have called this place a blot on the world, had I thought there was any real beauty in the world left to blot.

Once I reached the inn, I breezed past the common room, down the hall, into my room, closed the door, leaned against it, and found a sword against my throat.

I did not even bother to raise a hand. I only let my head fall back against the door, closed my eyes, and sighed. "Must we go through this again?" I asked wearily.

Nadiya flushed pink and lowered her sword. "S-sorry," she mumbled. She cleared her throat. "I...thought you were someone else."

I clutched my head. "_Who_?" I cried, driven beyond all endurance. "I do not know if you have noticed, little princess, but Xanos is _very _hard to mistake for anyone but Xanos!"

She chewed her lower lip sullenly. "That is not true."

"No?"

She scowled. "No," she said. Almost primly, she slid her sword back into its sheath. "One might easily mistake you for a goat."

Despite my mood, a soft snort of amusement escaped me. I levered myself away from the door, massaging my shoulder absent-mindedly. It had begun throbbing again. The bloody woman _had _dislocated it, no matter what she said to the contrary. I would swear to it in any court of law. "You have not moved from here, correct?" I asked suddenly.

She blinked. "No. Why?"

I ignored that. "No one has come?" I persisted.

"No." A tiny frown formed in the vee between her eyebrows. "A man knocked on the door earlier," she added uncertainly.

"Truly?" An imp of mischief seized me. "Did you invite him in?"

She blinked again. "What?" she gasped. Her face colored. "Of course not! I hid under the...the..." She waved her hand vaguely in the general direction of the bed. "That."

My eyes followed her gesture. "The bed," I stated flatly. Come to think of it, there _were _cobwebs in her hair. I had initially thought that perhaps she had merely traded her typical lightning-struck hairstyle for a more down-in-the-dungeons look.

"Yes. That."

I rolled my eyes. "Say it after me. Bed. _Bed. _You _can _call it by its name, you know. It is highly unlikely to respond, so you needn't worry about speaking to it-"

The little termagant glowered at me. "I do not approve of such...such things," she said stiffly. "What is wrong with sleeping on the ground?"

"The ground is covered in dirt, that is what is wrong with it. For Beshaba's sake, woman, do you _enjoy_ being filthy?"

"That..._bed-" _The word came out as if it had only been dragged out by a team of horses. "-is too soft to be comfortable. And too high to be safe. What if I were to fall off during the night?

I stared at her in disbelief. "Most normal people do not travel very far while they sleep," I pointed out - quite reasonably, I thought.

Evidently, I had not been reasonable enough. The woman stamped one small, indignant foot at me. "They roll!" she protested in a shrill soprano.

I blinked slowly, trying to process this. I was tired. Perhaps that was why she did not make very much sense. Or perhaps - and this seemed the likelier option - she was merely insane. "So, what do you do when you sleep on the ground?" I asked bemusedly. "Roll across the sand like a tumbleweed?"

She paused. "No," she said slowly. She crossed her arms over her chest. I entertained a brief sense of amazement that this was even possible. Her arms were not very long, and her...chest region...was very broad. "The tent walls usually stop me."

I could not help it. I buried my face in my hands, bent double, and began to laugh helplessly.

Evidently, the woman had mistaken my laughter for tears, or possibly for incipient hysteria. Through my fingers, I saw her face fall like a Netherese city. "What is wrong?" she asked worriedly. Her frown deepened. "What happened?"

Her question effectively robbed me of all hilarity. I quieted. A memory returned, along with the weight of gold in my pocket. I fumbled it out, my fingers uncharacteristically clumsy, and extended a hand. "Do you recognize this?" I asked.

I had expected Nadiya to take the cuff. I had not, however, expected all of the blood to drain out of her face like that. Nor had I expected her to sink to the ground as if all of the strength had suddenly left her legs.

I cleared my throat. "I will take that as a yes," I said, my voice sounding altogether too harsh in the sudden silence.

She stared at the thing as if she could not tear her eyes away from it. "Where did you get this?" she whispered.

I cleared my throat again, irritably. I felt almost as if a pigeon had flown down my gullet. "I bought it," I said. "It was sold to a trader by a-" _Oh, just say it, Xanos_. _If she cannot bear to hear the reality of the situation, she should not be here. _"A slaver. It seems that Ghufran was correct."

My explanation met with silence. After a few interminably long seconds, I sought to fill it. "They were here. Two days ago." More silence. "They were...bought-" The girl flinched_, _gods damn her, she_ flinched_, but her lips tightened and she still did not say a word and how was Xanos supposed to tell her these things if she did not complain or object but only kept looking so bloody screaming _miserable_? "-by a man named Aglast Thimm. He has taken them to Orofin."

Her voice, when it came, was so faint as to be almost inaudible. "Where is Orofin?" she asked quietly. Her fingers ran all along the cuff, tracing it over and over again.

"I will show you." I watched her for a few moments longer. "On a map," I added, like an absolute, blithering idiot.

_Oh, very good, Xanos, _my brain said scathingly. _Very intelligent. Where else could you have shown her but on a map? What, were you planning to show her Orofin in some tea leaves? Divine its location for her in some chicken guts? Fool. What is the matter with you?_

The girl swallowed. She did not look up. Her hair had fallen across her face. This was a great relief, because it meant that I could not see her expression. "Thank you," she said quietly.

_Do not thank me! _some internal voice screamed in response. _Your mother and sister are still in Thimm's hands. I have done nothing worthy of thanks_. _Nothing!_ The thought was damnably, uncomfortably alien, but it would not leave me.

I shifted uneasily. By rights, the desert night should have cooled that room, but it must have been very poorly positioned within the inn. The air felt stifling. With an effort, I pried my tongue from where some malicious fae trickster had apparently nailed it to the roof of my mouth, and I spoke. "Sleep," I said curtly. "We leave tomorrow morning at first light."

Then I turned, spun on my heel, and fled to the next room with my tail tucked between my legs.


	29. Chapter 29

My eyes opened, and I saw nothing but a blur.

Then the blur resolved itself in the fine weave of an unfamiliar fabric, and a wave of disorientation struck me.

My heart lurched, and I struggled upright, fighting off the blankets that had somehow gotten all tangled all around my arms and legs.

Stone was all around me, like the temple of Lathander, but it was not the temple, because it was far too small and the stone was the wrong color and the ceiling was a hard, close confusion of wooden beams.

_Where-_

Memory trickled back into my waking brain. It washed away some of my disorientation.

_Oh._

I was not at home. I was in Hlaunga, in the midst of the Zhentarim, and everyone else I knew-

My unease blossomed into a sickening dizziness. _Do not think of it_, I thought sharply. I needed to be able to move. Thinking about the situation would paralyze me.

I scrubbed my hands over my face and pushed myself into a sitting position. My eyes felt as if sand had been poured into them by the bucketful. My mouth felt packed with wool. So, for that matter, did my head, which throbbed in a dull, hot sort of way.

I remembered dragging the blankets from that ridiculous outlander contraption they called a bed, because eventually the fire had burned down and the night had turned cold. I could not remember falling asleep. Obviously, my weariness had overwhelmed all my intentions. I could not imagine any other explanation for why I might find myself lying on this cold and inhospitable floor.

When I recovered my wits enough to make a move to stand, something metallic rolled from my lap and clinked to the floor.

Instinctively, I knelt back down to retrieve whatever had fallen. Years of habit made it inconceivable for me to leave some object lying untidily out of its proper place.

Then I actually looked at what I had, and unwelcome memory broke through the last few cobwebs of sleep.

I did not know what I had expected to find here - or rather, what I had expected Xanos to find. I had stayed in this room like a lump, fighting the urge to climb from the window and follow him to see what he was doing.

I had not done so. I never listened. My family had told me so time and again. This time, I had vowed, I would listen. I had to show faith in El Ma'ra. If I doubted his gift, he might become angry and take it away, and our tribe could not afford that.

So I had waited.

And, for my patience, I had been rewarded in the way of the spirits, who never gave a gift without taking something else away.

I would have known our mother's bracelets anywhere. The last I had seen of this one, it had been on her wrist. Now, it was in my hands, and she was nowhere to be seen.

Mother would never have given her gold up willingly. Therefore, someone had taken our mother's jewelry from her.

Someone had laid hands on my mother.

I realized that I was holding the cuff so hard that it was biting into my palm. That would not do. The gold was soft. I might damage it.

I forced my grip to loosen. Then, with unsteady fingers, I clasped my mother's bracelet around my wrist. Wearing it felt like sacrilege, in a way. In another way, though, it was comfort, as if I was only keeping it safe for her until I saw her again.

_Silly dreams for a silly girl. _I dismissed my daydreaming and hauled myself to my feet.

I very nearly fell over again when a pounding came from the door to the adjacent room. It took a panicked moment for me to recognize the voice behind the door, and to understand that it was both familiar to me and that it was swearing in a cadence which rose and fell with the kind of towering irritation.

Recovering myself, I combed my fingers through my hair to tame the worst of the tangles, twisted my robes around until they were decently arrayed, and hurried to the door, because I was certain that a man with the manners of a goat would not hesitate to break my door down no matter what state I happened to be in at the time.

When I yanked opened the door, it was to see Xanos standing there, scowling at me as if, with my delay, I had personally insulted him.

By way of further greeting, he shoved a bundle of cloth at my face. "Wear this," he commanded briskly. His eyes fell on my face. He frowned absently. "You look terrible," he observed critically. "Didn't I tell you to sleep?" Then he spun, his robes fluttering, and slammed the door without any further ado.

I stared at the door. The grain was very smooth. I would dearly have liked to bite it. Actually, I would have liked to bite _him_, but the door was in the way.

When I saw what he had given me, I thought I might bite through the door anyway, knob and wood and all.

I realized that I had al-Rashid's sword in my hand. I did not remember drawing it.

No matter. I would put the weapon to good use.

With the hilt of my scimitar, I banged on the door until it opened again.

The doorway revealed an irate sorcerer on the verge of some verbal explosion. I, however, did not wait to hear whatever offensive statement he had in mind to say. "I am not wearing this," I said flatly.

His lip curled, though I noticed that he kept glancing at my scimitar from the corners of his eyes. Good. He had best be wary, if he expected me to dress like a harlot. "Tymora's Tits," he growled. "Not this agai-"

I ignored his ranting and interrupted him in mid-sentence. "And stop swearing!" I growled back.

He stared at me. "Why?" he asked, his voice mystified.

I glared at him disapprovingly. "'Tis unmannerly," I spat.

He threw his hands in the air in an unnecessarily dramatic show of exasperation. "Ye gods, woman!" he cried. "Have you no mercy? You drive me to it!"

"I cannot drive you to rudeness," I pointed out scathingly. "You are already there."

"And you are driving me towards insanity with admirable haste, I might add."

"Good. Then perhaps you will make more sense once you are mad."

He reached out, convulsively grasping the empty air with his hands as if he wished it were my throat. "How?" he breathed. "How is Xanos not making sense?"

There were times when I doubted his claim that he was not yet insane. What he proposed was beyond unreasonable. "I cannot wear this," I protested, and brandished the unsettlingly small bundle of clothing at him accusingly.

The sorcerer lost his fight to keep his voice under control. "Why not?" he bellowed.

I slapped the doorframe with the flat of my free hand. "Because a respectable woman does not show her legs to all and sundry!" I snarled back.

That gave him pause. "No," he disagreed thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, Xanos would nothing but respect for any woman who showed him her legs. I would consider her a kind and generous soul and offer her my sincerest thanks for giving me something pleasant to look at in this hideous hellscape you call a desert."

Blood rushed to my cheeks. "You-"

He cocked his head at me inquisitively. "I?" he asked in a dulcet undertone.

I spluttered. "You are indecent," I gasped.

He waved a bored hand. "And unmannerly, yes, yes, I know," he said. He arched an insolent eyebrow. "Was there anything else?" he drawled. He reached for the opening of his mantle. "Perhaps you would like me to take my clothes off to show solidarity? After all, if you are afraid of being noticed-"

I slammed the door on his infuriatingly smug and toothy grin. His laughter echoed from behind it.

Then, glumly I did as he had suggested. I had to trust in the wisdom El Ma'ra's gift – even if he did seem to have terrible ideas.

I would not, however, go about exposing that outlandish outfit unless it was absolutely necessary. On that point, I would concede nothing. As long as we were outside of any settlement, I would wear my robes over it, that was all. It would be hot, but better hot than exposed.

Even with the so-called clothing on, I did not understand how outlander women could wear such things. By what I had seen of outlander women in these places, the clothes did seem normal, but what they called normal, I called madness. The shirt was linen and far too thin for comfort and had laces in the front that risked showing far too much unless I pulled them tight – and if I did that, the fabric went far too taut across my breasts. As for the bottoms, perhaps they were not especially revealing, but they still showed enough of my legs to be uncomfortable, and if I turned around and craned my neck to look down and behind me, it was just possible to make out the shape of my…my…

I blushed and yanked my robes back over my head. I might die of heatstroke in so many layers of clothing, but that was a better death than one from humiliation.

When next the door connecting the two rooms opened, Xanos eyed me up and down and snorted, but said nothing. Perhaps he had grown wiser. Or perhaps it was the irate curl of my lip which dissuaded him. I thought my upper lip came close to touching the tip of my nose, so deep was my scowl.

He gestured. "Into the carpet with you," he commanded brusquely.

I obeyed reluctantly, feeling thoroughly ridiculous. "Do not jostle me so much this time," I muttered.

He sighed. "Complaints, complaints," he lamented, and stooped to throw the edge of the carpet over me. "All Xanos hears are complaints."

"Perhaps those are the echoes of your own voice you are hearing," I said acidly. "Stop speaking so loudly, and it might stop."

"You know, I am of half a mind to leave you in that carpet and sell you to the next caravan out of here."

"You would not dare," I tried to retort, but it came out muffled and a little strangled because he chose that moment to unceremoniously heft me up from the floor.

Of course he jostled me. I had asked him not to. Therefore, he could do no other than the exact opposite of what I had just asked. I wondered if all outlanders had such a contrary nature, or if I had just been particularly unlucky in my acquaintances.

_When I get out of here_, I thought darkly, _I am going to hit him so hard that even his ancestors feel it._

My temper built to a seething simmer, there in my overly snug and stifling hideaway. There were voices outside, every so often, and the sound of movement. Each sound made my heart jump, which only made my temper fouler.

Gradually, though, rage gave way to guilt.

Was my sister half so comfortable? My mother? Fayid, if he was alive? I had no way of knowing. From what I had been told, they were most likely being tortured in some way. I had no right to lament any amount of discomfort.

I wished, with a desperation that hollowed out my gut and burned in my throat, that I knew where they were, so that I could go there and fight to free them without having to suffer through any more of this wondering and waiting.

On the heels of that wish came another - the wish that the spirits would let me die in the desert without ever finding out what had happened to my family. The truth might be worse than my imaginings. I was not certain that I wanted to know it.

After what seemed an eternity of ever-growing depression and increasingly suffocating heat, the jostling ended with a jarring thump.

Somehow, I thrust aside the carpet and staggered to my feet. The sunlight stung my eyes, and the cooler outside air made me shiver when it hit my sweaty skin.

Xanos looked down at me, rubbing his chin pensively. "I did not think it possible, but now you look even worse than you did this morning," he remarked. He thrust a waterskin at me. "Drink," he ordered.

I glared at him weakly, but I swiped the waterskin from his hands without a word. He was right. I needed water. I only wished that he would stop being right. It made his attitude especially aggravating, because then I could not justifiably call him an idiot.

The rustle of paper accompanied my drink. I heard a mutter that was barely audible. In it, I caught the words 'harlot', 'priestess', and 'west, which way is west?'.

I lowered the skin to see Xanos glaring at a piece of parchment. From the drawings on its face, it seemed to be a map. "What is it?" I asked, without much curiosity.

He transferred his glare to me and snorted. "Nothing," he said loftily, and rolled up his map. "Follow me," he added, and strode off with an air of great purpose.

Briefly, I wondered if he knew where he was going. Then I shrugged and trudged after him.

Relentlessly, my thoughts began to circle themselves once again.

Orofin was likely to be dangerous. Death was possible, if not probable. That was a problem. If I did die, my only hope was that I had given Ali enough information to follow the same path, and to succeed where I had failed. That was not a hope without hooks, however. If Ali went to find our family, he would have to take a large force of warriors and leave the oasis only scarcely guarded. Our oasis was well protected, our water precious. If we left it unguarded we might very well come back to find it claimed by another tribe. Then we would have to fight to get it back or, if we were too weak, find another place to live.

_We are Bedine_, I thought sternly to myself. _We once wandered, just like the other tribes. We will again, if we must._

_Yes, but it has been centuries_, whispered an infuriating little dissent in my brain. _Do we still remember how to survive out in the open desert? Or will we have to re-learn it? And if we do, can we re-learn it before our ignorance kills us all?_

Nervously I gnawed my lip and turned my mother's bracelet around and around on my wrist, while what ifs and but thens and half-sketched fears chased one another around in my brain.

So preoccupied I was that I nearly jumped out of my skin when a deep - and deeply annoyed - voice interrupted my musings. "Have you no questions to ask?" it asked abruptly.

I turned my head to blink owlishly at the sorcerer. "What?"

He rolled his eyes. "All the way to Hlaunga, you would not stop peppering Xanos with questions," he said testily. "Have you none to annoy me with now?

I blinked. "Oh," I said vaguely. "No. That is all right." I fiddled with my mother's bracelet. In the frantic fog of my brain, a little light flickered. "Thank you," I added politely. He had, after all, just invited my questions, albeit in a very rude and roundabout sort of way.

We resumed walking. I returned to my brooding, paying only enough mind to the striding figure in front of me that I would not lose sight of him and become lost.

Eventually he spoke again. "It is just as I thought, then," he said grimly.

I felt a flicker of irritation. Did the man not understand that I was in no mood to be bothered? "What?" I asked tersely.

His tone was sweet, but his words were anything but. "You do not even have the wit to be curious about the world outside your little watering hole," he replied. He sighed, a mocking sound with nothing whatsoever of sympathy in it. "A pity. I had such high hopes-"

I stopped and spun, jerked out of my indifference by the sting of his words. "The Oasis of the Green Palm is not just a 'little a watering hole'," I snapped. "How dare you-"

"That insignificant puddle?" he interrupted me, and barked a laugh. "Hah! I have seen it. It was barely more than a streak of piss in the sand."

I sucked in an outraged breath. My nostrils flared. "You take that back," I demanded angrily.

He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned at me. "Make me," he taunted.

My hand flashed to the hilt of my sword. I did not care that he was my only help. I did not care if I painted the sand with his blood all the way from here to Orofin. He was insolent, and obnoxious, and-

Then I paused, reflecting.

What was the point? It was too hot for this, and I was too tired to argue, and my head would not stop throbbing.

I shook my head and turned away. "Never mind," I muttered.

He growled something which I did not understand. I did not think I even knew the language he said it in, which was fortunate, because no doubt he had said something offensive and I would be happier if I did not understand it.

Again, we resumed our trudge. Again, I resumed brooding.

It grew hotter. My head was spinning. Perhaps I had not slept enough. Actually, sleep seemed like an excellent idea. I was very tired. Perhaps if I-

A shockingly cool splatter of water hit the top of my head and yanked me out of my reverie with a shriek.

I reeled around to see Xanos holding a waterskin upside-down over the space where my head had been mere moments ago. Water dripped into my eyes. My hair stuck to my cheeks. I yanked it away so hard that my scalp stung, but I was too enraged to care. "What was that for?" I shouted.

"You should know better than to go so long without water," he snapped back. With his other hand, he reached beneath his mantle - it hid many things, that mantle, effectively obscuring much of his form in its colorful sweep - drew another waterskin out from what must have been his belt. He threw it to me. "You little twit," he added, rather gratuitously.

I caught the skin out of the air. A year or more of having Hammad throw my own scimitar at me had instilled that particular reflex so deeply in me that now I had to think in order not to catch things that were thrown at me. "Oh," I said lamely. My fingers fumbled at the stopper before finally managing to twist it out of the skin's neck. "Well…you could have said something. You should not have wasted perfectly good water on my head."

"It was the only way to get your attention," he growled. His brows snapped down forebodingly. "Of course, I could always let you die of heatstroke and leave your corpse to ripen in the sun until it bursts like an overripe melon-"

I took an absent-minded pull of the waterskin. The water was tepid, but it seemed sweet as honey, and soothed my aching throat. "Only the fresh ones do that," I croaked.

The sorcerer's brows reconfigured themselves into a perplexed frown. "What?"

"Only fresh corpses do that," I repeated patiently. I forced myself to take small sips, in between sentences."Zombies never did such things," I went on. Another sip. "I think Kel-Garas must have done something to them. I do not know if it was magic or if he just salted them like a side of lamb, but it was as if they had had all of the fluids drawn out of them after they died." I cleared my parched throat and took yet another careful sip. "Nobody ever agreed with me, but I thought they always smelled very strange," I added thoughtfully. "Not like normal corpses at all."

One of Xanos's eyebrows slowly climbed to his hairline, while the other remained where it was. I could not quite read the resulting expression. It conveyed either skepticism, or confoundment, or the growing suspicion that I was a link short of a string of sausages. "You have a wide experience with corpses?" he asked.

I blinked. The question was slightly perplexing. What was there to explain? Nevertheless, because he was an outlander and could not be expected to understand our ways, I tried to make him understand. "I am a Bedine woman," I said. "We prepare the dead for their pyres. We are the ones who bring our warriors into the world. It is only right that our hands be the ones to see them out again." I took another drink. "Our father was the worst," I went on thoughtfully. "The stinger who killed him was using a halberd. It had cut him in half." I made a face. "Mother had a terrible time putting him back together again for the pyre." Finally, I looked at Xanos. His expression had, if possible, gone even queerer. "What?" I asked uneasily. Suddenly, I regretted saying so much. My tongue was not normally so loose. The heat must have scrambled my brains more than I had thought. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He shook his head, still wearing that bemused expression. "You would be right," he said abruptly. I noticed that he did not seem inclined to answer my question, instead switching the subject so swiftly that it might have made my head spin were my head not already spinning. "Necromancers often use particular alchemical brews to preserve corpses." Suddenly, he chuckled. "It is a necessity. It can get damnably difficult to conquer the world with an army of the undead if one's army keeps falling to pieces."

I frowned curiously. "Has that ever happened?"

"Yes," he answered promptly. "In eleven-ninety-two, one rather inadequate tharchion-

I interrupted him. "What is a tharchion?" I asked curiously.

He paused and cocked his head. "Thay is divided into provinces called tharchs," he said at last, with surprising patience. I would have expected him to snap my head off for the interruption, but he did not seem to begrudge my questioning. "Each is ruled by a man or woman known as a tharchion."

"Oh." I digested that. Then I recalled my manners and issued an automatic half-bow of apology. "I am sorry," I said politely. "I interrupted you. Please go on."

He blinked. "Er, yes…as I was saying," he said, seeming oddly nonplussed. He cleared his throat. He turned to continue walking, gesturing for me to walk with him. "This particular tharchion attempted an assault on another's stronghold in a neighboring tharch. He had a very narrow window of time to do it in, however, and in his rush he neglected to take a few key precautions before raising his undead legions."

He had very long legs and took commensurately large steps. I had to walk very fast to keep up with him. "What happened?" I asked, a little breathlessly. In the span of time it took me to ask the question, the answer had already struck me. "Oh! Did his warriors fall apart?"

His grin was maliciously delighted. "Oh, yes - some few hundred spans shy of his enemy's walls."

"Oh." I considered that. "That is a very inconvenient way to start a battle."

"Inconvenient, yes. Also fatal. The rival tharchion took the poor, stupid bastard to pieces along with his army. I think the people in that region still sing songs about it."

I considered that, too. My lips twitched. "I wonder," I said thoughtfully. "If we could have stolen whatever Kel-Garas used to make those preservatives, wouldn't that have made his army much easier to fight?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Oh." I imagined a skeleton, lashing out with its rusty sword only to have its arm fall off at the shoulder, hand and sword and all. Or perhaps a zombie might open its jaws to bite just to have its jawbone drop to the sand. I made a small noise that was certainly not a giggle. I bit my lip. "That would have brought us many victories. I wonder why no one ever thought of it?"

The sorcerer snorted derisively. "Because they were all far too stupid," he said.

I felt compelled to rise to the defense of my tribe. "Not all of them," I protested. Honesty made me pause, and then add, "Well, only my brothers. And some of the women." Honesty reared its ugly head again. "Um. Most of the women." I groped for something positive to say. "Our mother was very smart," I added hopefully. At the sound of my own words, my mood soured anew. "Is very smart," I corrected, much more quietly.

He grunted. "Are you done with that skin?" he asked suddenly.

I blinked. "What? Er. Oh, yes." I held the skin out to him awkwardly. " Here. Um-"

"Good." He took it from me, frowned at its now-scant weight, and pocketed it. "We should find some shade," he added gruffly.

It was very strange. When Xanos was not being rude, he was surprisingly agreeable to talk to. I wondered whether he was suffering from the heat, too, or if I had simply caught him in a rare moment of amiability."I suppose so. It is getting very hot," I agreed, bemused.

"Yes," he said. He sniffed the air. Something about the gesture did not seem entirely human."Also, I would like to find out who is following us, and that may be easier if we stop," he added.


	30. Chapter 30

We found shelter in the shade of a crag of rock that looked as if something had scooped out its middle like the flesh from a melon, leaving a cool hollow in whose shadows my robes blended well and Xanos's blended not at all.

This did not seem to bother him. If anything, his posture - cross-legged with his hands on his knees and his back as straight as an arrow, sitting on the very edge of our rocky perch - seemed to invite attack, as if he might even have welcomed the diversion, as contrary as he was. He sat very still. The only indication of motion came from the occasional flash of metal from the rings on his fingers or, if he turned his head, the glint of gold from the earrings in his pointed ears.

It was cool and quiet there in our shelter of the stone, too quiet. I did not think I liked the open desert very much. The only sound to reach my ears came from the shifting of the sand in the occasional breeze and the sometime skitter of a lizard over the rocks.

There was no chatter, no singing, no banging of pots or clicking of shuttles or the gentle lap of water against the reed-thick banks of an oasis.

There was only the red, sun-baked silence of a place where every creature for miles in any direction was simply too hot to move.

I thought that I understood now why it was said that sometimes men went mad after too much time spent alone in the desert. Men did not go mad because of the sun or the hardships or the thirst. They did so because of this terrible, soul-sucking silence.

Madness could not come to those who were already mad, however, and the silence did not seem to bother my companion. I found that this did not bother me, either. I enjoyed the peace, and there was something in his watchful gaze which made me feel secure enough to relax my own guard somewhat.

Eventually, however, the waiting wore on me. The peace and quiet was pleasant enough, but the uneasy feeling of being watched was creeping its fingers up and down my spine.

I stirred. "Where is he?" I asked softly.

The sorcerer's eyes refocused. They flickered to me irritably. "He?" he echoed.

"The one who is following us."

A smile twisted one corner of the sorcerer's mouth, showing a sly peep of fang. "How do you know that he is a he and not, in fact, a she?" he asked, in a manner that was almost teasing.

The thought gave me pause. I had not even thought of such a possibility. "I...do not," I said haltingly. "But…women are not usually scouts."

"Women, in your experience, do not usually carry swords, either."

"I...yes. That is true." I half-expected him to chide me for the sword at my hip, but he did not. Now that I thought of it, he never had. He had complained if I held my sword to his throat, of course, but otherwise seemed to have no objections to its presence. I did not know whether to find this strange or pleasing. The greater part of me was inclined to find it pleasing. I was used to having to conceal any evidence of my training as a warrior. It was something of a relief to find that I did not have to do that with this outlander.

I shook off my bemusement. It was not productive, and left my thoughts a-tangle. "You still have not answered my question," I said aloud.

The sorcerer shifted his position slightly. He did not look at me. "I do not know exactly where he is," he admitted with apparent reluctance. "But I have not heard him move."

I squinted at our surroundings, dubious. "I have heard nothing at all."

He sneered. "That is because your ears are only human."

Something in his voice prompted me to glance curiously at his ears. He was right. His ears were not very much like mine at all. Instead, they were lobeless and upswept into daggerlike points. There was a tiny gold hoop partway up the curve of his ear and a small purple gem near its point. It put me in mind of the ears on the elf I had seen in Tel Badir – ornamentation included. I wondered if there was any relation between half-orcs and elves. Certainly the men of those races seemed to enjoy adorning themselves in a way utterly unlike the men I knew.

The sorcerer's head turned slightly. "Have you looked your fill?" he asked tartly. "Or would you like Xanos to turn so that you can see his good side?"

I flushed and jerked my eyes away, ashamed at having been caught staring so rudely. Of course, it was not entirely my fault. If he were not so strange, I would not be tempted to stare. "Why do you do that?" I blurted.

His voice was distantly curious. "Do what?"

I made a helpless gesture, trying to find the words to express my thoughts without sounding like a stammering nincompoop. "Refer to yourself in that way."

"In what way?"

I turned my head to give him a long, level look. "You know what way," I grumbled. "Do not pretend to be stupid." Whatever he was, whoever he was, he could not have been a complete fool. A complete fool would not have been able to kill Kel-Garas. "I will not believe it."

His eyebrow arched. He did not look at me. "Do you object?" he asked blandly.

A snide little impulse seized me. "To what?" I retorted.

He snorted. "Do not pretend to be stupid," he mimicked me mockingly. "Xanos will not believe it."

I pointed at him triumphantly. "There," I exclaimed. "That. When you refer to yourself by your own name." I lowered my hand and scowled. "It is very confusing when you speak that way."

"Yes," he agreed. His eyes narrowed with amusement. "Yes, it is."

I felt a spark of sullen annoyance. "You do not intend to answer my question, do you?" I accused.

"I just did."

"Bah. That was no real answer."

"Only if you do not understand the question."

"You are making my head hurt."

"That is most likely the heat. Drink some more water."

I scowled at him and unstoppered the cork of my waterskin with what my have been excessive vigor. Water sloshed over my knuckles. I wanted to pour it on his head, but that would have been a waste of water.

We sat without speaking for a time, while the sun sank from its peak. In a nearby stand of sandgrass, something clicked and buzzed, then fell silent.

To pass the time, I drew al-Rashid's sword and polished it. Then I laid it across my lap and, in lieu of anything better to do, settled in to wait.

The heat made me drowsy. I dug my fingernails into my palm to stay awake. When my eyelids began to droop anew, I drummed the fingers of my hand against the stone and bit the nails on my other hand. My foot tapped out a nervous tattoo against the rock.

A disgruntled rumble broke the silence. "I am going to set your feet on fire if you do not stop doing that," Xanos muttered.

I stilled my foot. "Sorry." I began to drum the fingers of both hands against the stone before I caught myself and managed to stop. "What do we do?" I burst out.

The sorcerer grunted. His eyes scanned the desert, over and over, never lingering long in one place. "We wait."

I sighed and slumped back against the stone. "I was afraid you would say that," I said glumly.

Eventually, the sun's rays began to slant low across the desert. The air cooled. Nothing moved. Nothing came. I began to wonder if Xanos had been imagining things - or if he had been toying with me, deciding to make me nervous and jumpy for some obscure reason which only he understood.

We walked on until dark, while I tried very hard not to glance over my shoulder so often that I tripped over a rock and fell on my face. My hand seldom strayed far from the hilt of my sword, though I did not draw it. I was not certain whether a bared weapon would invite attack or dissuade it, but given that we were only two, I suspected the former.

I was not, I decided, suited to such uncertain situations. At home, the enemy had usually been clear. If it shuffled, stank, or moaned incoherently, it was either a minion of Kel-Garas or one of my brothers after far too many jugs of wine. Either way, I had known what to do: hit it until it stopped moving.

This enemy who stalked us now was unknown and invisible to me, however, and that was a very unsettling thing.

To make matters worse, my mood began to sink again with the sun. Sometimes I would feel calm, but as soon as I thought I had recovered from my earlier dejection, a stray thought or memory made me think of my family again, and then the calm I had found slipped through my fingers like water.

It was fortunate that Xanos was there to keep watch and guide us. My mind was so befuddled that I would have lost an eye to a flock of vultures and a leg to a pack of hungry jackals before noticing that anything was amiss.

The sun fell low in the sky and the shadows lengthened before we finally found a likely camping spot and stopped.

I assessed the place. It was a sandstone shelf, slightly elevated from the surrounding sand but still sheltered a cluster of rocky outcroppings, which was good. It meant that we would have better visibility looking out than anyone else would, looking in. The footing was uneven due to a scree of stone which littered the ground, but it might suffice to clear the center and shove the loose rocks to the sides, where they would hopefully interfere with the footing of anyone who tried to tiptoe into our little enclosure.

I swept a few loose stones out of the way with my foot, eyed the site suspiciously, and frowned. "We will need a fire," I mused out loud.

I regretted my statement almost immediately, because it was almost immediately that a gout of green fire sprouted up from the bare, rocky ground.

I jumped back, clutching my robes to me against the shock of sudden fire in the cold night. "Must you do that?!" I yelped.

Xanos smirked and wiggled his fingers at me. "Why?" he purred. "Does the sight of magic being worked offend your fragile Bedine sensibilities?"

The way the fire burned with no visible source of fuel was disturbing to no end. On the other hand, the cold was making itself known. I hugged my arms around myself and scowled uncertainly at the flames, whose outer tongue were now beginning to shade towards yellow. "I…have no objections," I muttered, which was a lie. It was not that I had no objections. It was only that, when faced with the potential loss of such blissful heat, I could not think of any of them off the top of my head.

Night fell. I had no appetite, and did not eat. Instead I sat, brooding and sleepless, as close to the fire as I dared to sit. I did not want to be too near to it, but it _was_ warm.

Eventually, I became aware of a new light which neither flickered in time with our strange campfire nor had quite the same hue.

It was a queerly familiar sight, that light. It shone like a rainbow, and its colors splashed the sand like water.

I looked up, and my heart twisted.

Globes of light hovered in the air above Xanos's palm …just like Zebah. He did not even seem aware of me…just like Zebah.

The lights spun through a dreamy dance for a few more heartbeats.

Then they faded, flickering out like dying fireflies.

It was magic. It was evil. And it broke my heart to see it go. "Do that again," I blurted urgently.

Xanos looked up. His eyes caught the light like a wild animal's, startled and startling both with their greenish sheen. "What?"

I should have remained quiet. Our mother would have counseled me to remain quiet. But then, I never did as I was told. "Do that again," I urged. My fingers twined together nervously. "W-with the lights. It was…it was very lovely." It reminded me of home.

He hesitated for several too-long moments. "Very well," he said at last, his lips thinning as if he thought better of his concession.

I said nothing, because I did not want him to think better of his concession. I wanted him to make the lights shine, as unearthly as they were, because there was a hypnotic comfort in watching them.

I sat in silent witness for a while, my knees hugged to my chest. Words roiled in me, knotting my stomach. I discarded most of them as silly, or imprudent, or ill-advised, or simply stupid.

Some lingered, catching in my throat until, eventually, I had no choice but to give them voice. It was either that or burst.

"Zebah used to do something like this, when she was very small," I said at last, quietly. As quiet as I was, my words still sounded uncomfortably loud amidst the silence. "I told her not to."

The sorcerer grunted, faintly. His eyes did not waver from the light above his palm, which spiralled into the air in a twist of bright crimson. "Did she listen?" the mage asked.

"Yes. Zebah always listened. Listens,"I corrected myself. "She was…she is always the obedient one." I stared into the lights. "It was beautiful," I whispered. "But I made her stop." And then I burst into tears.

The lights flickered out again.

Then there came a very long and very uncomfortable pause, during which I thought I might either never be able to stop crying or I might just sink through the ground in humiliation at my childish display.

Eventually, Xanos broke the silence. "Oh, Cyric's Balls," I heard him swear. A tone of forced joviality entered his voice, which made for a very odd combination when it encountered the irritation that was already there. "Come now," he said sharply. "Do not be ridiculous. A Bedine warrior never cries."

"I am not a warrior," I objected wetly. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, studiously avoiding his. I did not know whether I might see scorn or pity there, but I did not particularly want to find out right at that moment. "I am an eighteen year old girl, and s-scared." I tried not to sniffle too noisily. I failed. "What are they doing to her, Xanos?" I asked. It came out broken. I tried to make it sound harsh, because that way it might seem less pathetic. "Are they hurting her?"

He let out a short growl of frustration. I heard a rustle of clothing. "You expect Xanos to tell you?" he asked harshly.

At that, I looked up at him. "Yes," I said, my voice tired. I felt tired, almost beyond believing. "Spirits know that no one else can."

He stared away, his shoulders rigid. The fire carved deep shadows below his cheekbones and his eyes, making his face look gaunt and hollow and curiously bleak. "They will not injure her," he said at last. "She is too valuable."

I swallowed carefully. "And the others?" I forced myself to ask. I did not look away from his face while I awaited an answer. I had to know. Not knowing might very well drive me mad, at this rate.

Muscles rippled along his jawline. He seemed to clench his teeth on a few hastily aborted replies before finally settling on a response. "You already know the answer," he said. "They may be tortured or killed. It depends on how much she cooperates."

"But why?" I asked. The risks I thought I understood, but.. "Why do they want her?"

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "A Bedine sorceress is a powerful resource," he said. "They would like to have her on their side against your people."

I sat up slowly from my miserable slouch. My hair was tangled. I drew my fingers through it absently. I would have to brush it. I had neglected to do so today, and it showed, and it would not do to rescue our mother only to have her die of humiliation when she saw me in such a state. "So you have said," I said slowly. "But...Zebah hardly even knows anything about sorcery. That is what I do not understand. When she has done anything, it has been by accident."

"That is normal," the sorcerer said.

I blinked and looked up, surprised. "It is."

His face was unreadable. "Yes," he said. "It is. Sorcery is innate. It can emerge where least expected, and when it does, the sorcerer is seldom prepared." He looked away. "It can be trained, however," he added. "If her captors have a way to teach her to harness her power, her ignorance of her own power may not long be an issue. She may even come to be grateful to them for the service. It can be…frightening, to hold such power without having any way to control it." Then he shrugged again. Had I not known better, I would have thought the gesture uneasy, an uncomfortable roll of his shoulders that seemed designed to cast some unpleasant burden from them. "But you should not dwell on it so much."

"Why not?"

"For two reasons," he said. "One: because there is nothing you can do about it as things stand right now." His voice was as sour as a lemon. "And two: if your sister is anything like you, she will resist to the last and in the meantime make her captors suffer doubly for every ill they inflict on her."

A new flood of tears came to me, together with a twist of my lips that verged on a smile, though it was a pained and awkward one as far as smiles went. "She is not," I said quietly. "Not…like me, I mean."

The sorcerer laughed shortly. "Then _you_ will make them suffer," he said. "I have no doubt that you are capable. You have already demonstrated a remarkable ability to make Xanos feel like throwing himself off of the nearest cliff."

That should not have been flattering. Nevertheless, it was, in a roundabut sort of way. "Yes," I said simply. "T-thank you." I wiped my eyes again. "Xanos?"

"Yes?"

"You made the lights go out."

His eyes flickered to one side. They did not meet mine. "Yes."

"Do not. Please. Show them to me again?"

I could not read the look he gave me, nor understand the reason for his pause. I thought that I must have offended him somehow, but before I could muster an apology, he spoke. "Very well," he said at last, turning his gaze away from me.

Then, lifting his hand, my strange outlander worked his magic for me while the sky darkened to black.

Bit by bit, some measure of peace snuck into my heart on little cat feet.

What will be, will be, I thought, and rested my chin on my close-tucked knees. The lights flickered, turning red and purple and even shedding little showers of golden sparks. In spite of myself, I smiled.

Then I slept, and I dreamed of little dancing witchlights, lighting up the sky of my oasis like stars.

I became aware of a warmth on my face, and of a light which made the darkness behind my closed eyelids flush irritatingly red.

I opened my eyes. Then I closed them again almost immediately.

A tent, I thought grumpily. I would sell my firstborn son for a tent. Of course, I had no children, and in all likelihood I never would, because having children presupposed that I would both survive this endeavor and that any man in his right mind would care to marry me. As far as I knew, Hammad had received no offers for my hand. I suspected that the men had all been waiting for Zebah to be of age. Why settle for a fat, bad-tempered she-camel when you might win yourself a sleek young heifer instead?

Still, if I ever did have a son, I would gladly have exchanged him for a layer of canvas between my eyes and that cursed sun. Chances were that he would turn out to be like his uncles, anyway, and if I was anything like my mother I would fall pregnant as easily as other women fell off of logs. There would be plenty of sons to choose from. Perhaps I could keep the best ones and sell the rest to the Zhentarim.

I sat up, wincing and rubbing my hip. I had slept on a rock. That was something that did not happen in tents. The ground was kept clear and softened with carpets and cushions such that no errant, sharp-edged stones might leave bruises all over one's backside come morning.

Once the initial disorientation of waking had faded and I had concluded my internal catalogue of aches, I frowned and looked around and up to meet…

…a yellow-eyed, slightly bloodshot glare that was nearly as scorching as the sun. "Finally," Xanos snapped. He unfolded his arms from across his chest and straightened, sneering at me. "Xanos thought you intended to sleep the day away."

I blinked up at him owlishly. The disorientation came back, albeit in a slightly altered form and with a more specific target.

His glare truly was outstanding, combining outrage and disgruntlement and a sort of simmering fury that hinted at further fury in the near future.

It was not a pleasant thing to wake up to, especially after-

_Did I dream that?_ I squinted upwards uncertainly, vague memories of the night before coalescing quietly in the forefront of my mind. I must have dreamed it, I concluded uneasily. It was mind-wrenchingly difficult, in the morning light, to link the words Xanos and comforting together.

The sorcerer's scowl deepened. "What are you staring at?" he snarled. "Did your brains leak out of your ears during the night? Have you nothing to say?"

I blinked again. Something about the bloodshot quality of his eyes struck me. "Have you been awake all night?" I blurted, shocked.

His look of scorn, followed by a snort and a turned back, seemed answer enough. Guilt flooded me, though annoyance tempered it. He did not have to be angry with me. He could have acted like an adult rather than a child, after all. "Why did you not wake me to take guard?" I asked accusingly. "I would have-"

The sorcerer twitched. "Bah! You would have been worse than useless," he snapped. "Your hearing is pathetic, and you cannot see in the dark."

I glared back at him. "And you can?" I retorted.

"Yes."

"Oh." I had not been aware of that. Perhaps that explained why his eyes glowed in the dark, like an animal's might. In fact, it explained that peculiarity of his quite well. "Do you use magic to do that?" I asked curiously.

His response was terse and unpromising. "No."

"Then what do you use?"

His cheeks flushed purple. "My eyes, you little fool!"

My own color rose. I rocketed to my feet. "Don't you dare call me a fool," I shot back.

He sneered at me. "I will call you whatever I like."

My temper gave way with a nearly audible snap. Outrage grabbed me by the scruff of my neck with one hand, reached down my throat with the other, and abruptly took over my tongue. "You like fools, do you?" I demanded, mimicking that brute's usual sweetly mocking tones. Then I sniffed with disdain and delivered my verbal stab. "That would explain why you hold yourself in such high regard, then."

I was not certain whether the sudden blaze in his eyes was gratifying or terrifying. He took a half-step forward, his hands hungrily outstretched. "Why, you little-" he seethed.

Before he could reach me, a shower of rocks skittered down onto the sandstone shelf. Pebbles rolled to a stop. Tiny clouds of dust puffed into the air.

Xanos and I paused. We exchanged glances.

Then we both peered up to where the slide had begun.

I frowned. "You did not do that, did you?" I asked warily.

"No." Xanos cocked his head. His eyes narrowed. "Did you, by any chance?"

"No."

"Hmm." The sorcerer pursed his lips. He glanced at me sideways. I glanced back, and then glanced down to where my weapons lay. "All right, then."

I did not know who moved first.

All I knew was that my thrown spear hit the rocks a few moments after the ball of flame, which meant that my spearhead struck off shards of blackened stone amidst a truly spectacular shower of sparks and ash.

Whoever had been hiding behind the stone let loose a startled exclamation. Then they began to cough.

Xanos moved with surprising quickness for such a large man. He ignored the squawk that came as he reached around the rock, grabbed, twisted, and from behind the rock he lifted-

-a very familiar nut-brown shape, though now dust-covered and dangling almost apologetically from his fist.

Xanos stared at his captive. "This," he said meditatively, "-is getting very repetitive."

Brown essayed a weak smile. "Um," he said, somehow contriving to look sheepish. "H-hello, you two." His smile widened hopefully, showing a peep of very white teeth. "Miss me?"


	31. Chapter 31

I looked down at Brown's ingratiating smile and innocent brown eyes, and one question repeated itself over and over in my brain.

How did this fumble-footed little whoreson manage to hide from me so well - and for so long? I had known that we would be followed - but by this miserable creature? It was almost insulting, and the insult was only made worse by the fact that he had succeeded in evading my notice for days.

Xanos was obviously losing his edge. It was the only possible explanation.

Something in my shoulder popped and twisted painfully when I lifted the boy higher. I ground my teeth and tried to ignore it. I may have failed slightly. My voice came out as a strained and guttural snarl, more reminiscent of my orcish ancestors than of a rational human being. "You have five seconds to make your case," I grated. "Speak."

Brown's smile oozed from his face. "Wait," he blurted. "I can explain-"

I tightened my grip. "Three seconds, now," I said flatly.

The boy swallowed. His eyes darted to Nadiya, who had not yet sheathed her sword and was standing slightly to one side, watching our little discussion with the same sort of expression she might have worn upon finding a scorpion nesting in her smallclothes. In another woman, one who had not been born and raised in this hellish environment, this might have meant screams and panic. In her stout and malefic Bedine highness, however, this would only have prompted much the same annoyed and slightly thoughtful air as the one she was currently displaying, as if she was contemplating whether to drown the scorpion in a bucket of dishwater or whether she ought to save the water and just chop the thing's head off.

The little nut-brown blockhead in question began to look somewhat sickly. "I just want to help, I swear!" he squeaked. "I saw you in Hlaunga-"

"Did you, now? Then you either lied about your aversion to the place, or you are lying now. Which is it?"

"I'm not-"

"Do not insult me by presuming me to be an idiot," I growled. "You said you would not enter that camp."

"I didn't!" the boy whined. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "I…I waited. Outside. But I've watched and I've listened and I followed you after you left," he added urgently, "-and then I overheard your conversation last night and I think I know what you're doing and I- " He swallowed again. "I'dliketocomewithyou," he said in a rush.

I hesitated. I did not often do such a thing, but I was torn. I considered several different but all potentially satisfying responses to the boy's statement. Hysterical laughter was an option. So was shaking the mendacious little pipsqueak like a terrier with the rat. Laminating him to the surrounding rocks with a blast of flame was also tempting, and had the fringe benefit that he was almost certain to stop talking once it was over. "Surely you must be joking," I breathed.

He began to wave his hands, caught the furious snap of my eyes towards the movement, and stopped. "Oh, no, no," he babbled, "It's very easy. Awfully simple, really. You see...I don't like the Zhentarim very much." He offered a wan, apologetic smile. "As a matter of fact, I, um, hate them. Quite a lot, I'm ashamed to say, because it's really not nice to say those kinds of things, but…" He shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, I can't help it."

I barked a disbelieving laugh and dropped the boy. He crumpled to the ground. "You?" I scoffed. "You appear to be terminally good-natured and incapable of harboring hatred toward any living thing…although Xanos is prepared to accept that this may all be a part of a ruse designed to lure him off guard."

The boy managed to push himself into a sitting position, though not before scraping his hands against the stone and detangling, then retangling, his feet in configurations that seemed anatomically improbable for a bipedal creature, if not outright impossible. "I'm not that clever, I'm afraid," he admitted meekly. "As for why I hate them, it's very simple." He tried to smile again. It trembled for an instant and then slid from his face. "I have very good reason to believe that the Zhentarim killed my mother."

Nadiya started so violently that she nearly dropped her heirloom pigsticker, or camel-spitter, or weed-trimmer, or whatever it was that her tribe had used that sword for over the years. "What?" she blurted. "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know for certain," the boy admitted. Some of the animation left his light tenor voice, leaving it queerly monotonic. "But, um, I know that they did take all of my siblings - those they didn't kill, at least - and Mother was, um." He seemed to grope for the appropriate phrasing. "She was very angry about that."

The Bedine woman blinked. "I…imagine that she would be," she said bemusedly. The tip of her sword began to drop.

Her gullibility would be the death of me one of these days. "Imagining is all you will ever be able to do," I snapped at her, exasperated. "The boy is lying."

"I'm not," Brown burst out. "I swear. I'll swear on anything you want. I'll swear by…by my mother. By my ancestors. By the sky and sand. I'll swear by anything you want, only please believe me." His eyes fell on Nadiya, and his voice turned plaintive and wheedling. "Nadiya," he pleaded with her. "You're my friend, aren't you? You believe me, don't you?"

Nadiya avoided my eyes, choosing instead to frown uneasily at her supplicant. "You will tell me what happened," she said imperiously. "Then I will decide."

The boy's face fell. "But I told you," he insisted earnestly. A swipe of his hand through his brassy brown hair dislodged a sprinkling of sand. He blinked it away, hardly seeming to notice. "The Zhentarim came. Mother went after them. But she never…she never came back," he said. "Neither did any of the others." He sniffled. "That was...some years ago, now. Fourteen or so. I've tried to find them, ever since. I've looked, and looked, but I-" He swiped a hand across his cheeks, and then looked at the damp smear of ash across his fingers as if surprised to find it there. "Er. Sorry," he mumbled. He blinked rapidly. "Blast. I thought I'd gotten my eyes to stop doing that, too-"

Nadiya's full lips tightened. Her uncertainty and hesitance was practically written on her forehead, but I was curious to hear the rest of the tale. Thus, I did not object to her next question. "Why would they do such a thing?" she demanded.

Brown squinted up at her. "You should know," he said quietly. "The Zhentarim are known to take all kinds of slaves, and they don't…they don't really like having anything in their way. Or anyone." He scrubbed the heel of his hand over his cheek and shook his head. "We were in their way. Well, Mother was. We were too young yet. But Mother was out hunting that day, and..." He swallowed hard. "And they came."

Nadiya shook her head slowly, frowning. "If this happened fourteen years ago, you cannot have been more than a babe," she reasoned. "Were your brothers and sisters older than you?"

Brown gulped. "N-no," he said faintly. "We were all born at the same time." He thought for a moment. "More or less," he added.

"All of you?" Nadiya's voice was aghast. Her forehead wrinkled. "That poor woman," she added in an undertone.

A smile flickered on Brown's face. "She did complain sometimes," he admitted. "Mostly about the noise."

Nadiya's frown had deepened. "But that only makes less sense, not more," she insisted. "It would have been folly for your mother to leave so many young children untended like that. Was there no one else to guard you?"

I bestirred myself to speak. "And how was it that you, alone, survived when the rest of your family did not?" I asked pointedly.

Brown winced and shrugged. "I...I don't know why I'm alive," he confessed lamely. "Mother hid me. I know that. She made sure of it. But she hid the others, too, so why was it that the Zhentarim found the rest but didn't find me?" Brown wrapped his arms about himself, then glanced down at his arms and frowned. He let them fall. "I've wondered about that a lot, actually," he added, his voice subdued. "It doesn't seem right, does it? Everyone else gone, and me-" He gestured around him vaguely. "-still here."

"No," I agreed. "I, for one, find it positively unfortunate."

Nadiya's hiss was scandalized. "Xanos."

I outspread my hands innocently. "What? I am merely making an observation," I retorted. "Infants are not known for their skill in self-defense. If these so-called siblings of his were killed, so should he have been."

"And, if I had not defied my brother and stayed behind to fight the lich, I would have been captured along with-" Nadiya paused. Uneasily, she glanced at Brown. "-with the others," she finished awkwardly. Her eyes darkened. "But I was not, though I did not know at the time what the result would be." She shrugged. "The spirits lead us to unpredictable ends."

I studied her curiously. My hand lifted to rub my chin. I had never heard this story before. I had not cared to ask. It did, however, explain many things - namely, what she had been doing to become separated from the bulk of her tribe, and how she had been lurking in a war zone, the only woman among a few score armed men, despite being obliged by her people to have nothing to do in a fight but die in an appropriately ladylike manner. "So that is what happened," I murmured thoughtfully. "Interesting."

She scowled defensively. "What else should I have done?" she demanded. "Our tribe was in danger. I could have helped to defend it."

I felt a very peculiar sensation somewhere in my gut, half a little bloom of warmth and half a needle's prick of exasperation. "And of course you would never back down from a fight," I said drily.

The look in her expressive brown eyes was shrewd, and eloquently conveyed just how ridiculous she found my statement to be. "Neither would you, I think," she retorted.

At that, I grinned. "Truth," I admitted. Then I pinned her with a stare, in much the way I had seen Drogan do when he had particularly wanted to make a point. I had found it an effective teaching instrument, and I found that I wanted to make a very particular point now. "But the spirits did not lead you to that choice," I informed the little warrioress. "You made it yourself."

Her shrug was characteristically fatalistic. "Perhaps," she said mildly. "But there remain greater powers than us in the world, and we cannot see all consequences. Sometimes our fates are beyond our control."

"Hah. If the powers that be think to control Xanos's fate, he'll see them buggered with a garden rake. A broken one. Sideways." From the look on her face, this statement had nearly made the little woman swallow her tongue, and I was granted a few moments of blessed (if somewhat strangled) silence.

A reedy tenor voice ruined it. "It seems a little unkind for the fates to leave me alive and let everyone else I cared about die, don't you think?" Brown mused aloud.

Nadiya's stare was as blank as a wall. "Kind?" she echoed. "Why should they be kind, or even unkind? They are spirits. They do as they please."

Brown frowned in his mild-as-milk way, not so much offended as apparently perplexed by this viewpoint. "Well, I don't think I like that," he said diffidently. "The spirits should be nicer. So should everybody." He sighed. "They're not, though," he added sadly. "Makes you sad, doesn't it?"

Nadiya looked at him. Censure twisted her mouth, but her eyes were warm with sympathy, which was far more than the idiot before her deserved. "Could you do nothing for your kin?" she asked.

Brown seemed to shrink into himself, disappearing into the awkward sprawl of his limbs like a turtle into its shell. "Please, don't ask me that," he whimpered. "Please. I couldn't-" He sucked in a sharp breath. Then he buried his face in his hands and began to rock. "I had to stay quiet," he babbled. "Mother said so. There was nothing I could do. Mother told me to be quiet. Mother told me to hide. I had to do what Mother said. I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't-"

Nadiya knelt in front of him and reached a hand towards the idiot boy. She did not touch him. Possibly she thought he might explode, or dissolve into a puddle, or bite. "Brown," she said helplessly. Her hand wavered. It closed over his wrist. "Stop. Please."

A shudder went through the boy. He lowered his hands and looked up, red-eyed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "It's only-"

"Yes." Nadiya settled back onto her haunches in a peculiarly dainty way, her sword laid chastely across her knees. Her grip on the hilt was tight, and expressions fought one another to and fro across her face, quite clearly illustrating an internal battle in which her good sense was on the losing end. "I know."

Brown sniffed and smiled at her. "I like you," he said shyly. "You're nice. You hardly even shout at me at all. You're nothing like the Zhentarim, that's for sure." Then the boy took a steadying breath. "That's why I'll be coming with you," he announced firmly.

Silence reigned for all of half a dozen heartbeats. This time, I was the first to break it. "You must be out of your mind," I said flatly.

Brown perked up slightly and peered at me, seemingly entranced by this new idea . "Am I really?" he asked curiously. "I don't know. I don't feel crazy, but then I suppose I'd be the last to know it, wouldn't I? And I don't know if I'm crazy, so that means I might be crazy after all." He cocked his head. "I wonder. Is there any way to tell?"

"Yes," I seethed. "If you spy on a man and then expect to be gathered into the fold and allowed to tag at his heels and continue your spying up close-"

The boy's lower lip thrust out slightly in a pout of apparent hurt, which only tempted me to put a boot to his face and turn that grimace into one of real pain. I was not normally given to brute force demonstrations. It was a very orcish thing to do. I would, however, make an exception in certain cases. "I had to know if I could trust you," Brown whined. "You can't trust anyone in this desert, you know."

I bared my teeth at him. "Precisely."

"What? You mean you don't trust me? But I'm telling the truth-"

"And Xanos should take your word for it? Hilarious. Tell me another joke, boy. I could do with a little entertainment."

Nadiya rose to her feet very lithely for such a zaftig little woman, and over her shoulder she cast me a look full of nervous determination. "I think he should come," she said abruptly.

I did not scream. I was somewhat beyond that point. "What?" I asked dangerously.

She scowled and turned to me - enough to look at me fully without quite letting her new friend out of her sight, I noticed. "Do not take that tone with me!" she snapped. "Listen to me. If he is a spy, 'tis better to have him in our sight than out of it. And if he is not, he may be a valuable ally."

"Valuable? Hah! I would not pay two bent coppers to have that twit lie face-down over a stream and perform service as a bridge. He is too spineless even for that." I spun to the village idiot, who was crouching at the girl's feet with all the servility of a tame hound. The sight of it disgusted me. "Just what are you good for, boy? Please, enlighten Xanos."

"Um." The boy's eyes darted from side to side nervously. "I can…I can speak Asabi pretty well," he said hesitantly. "Although I really don't like talking to them very much, if it's all the same to you. I can speak some dialects of Elven, too, and I met a salt miner just outside the ruins of Miirsar who taught me some Dwarven, and then there was a mage in the Saiyaddar who let me look at his Netherese lexicon, which was really particularly fascinating because it had the old high dialect and then the low one-" Here he paused in mid-sentence and turned eagerly to his sainted mistress, his eyes lighting up. "-which you should really have a look at sometime, Nadiya, because I swear it's related to what the Bedine used to speak, although of course you hardly even use that language anymore-"

Nadiya stared at him uncomprehendingly. "What language?" she asked. Her eyebrows drew down into a frown. "And there are no mages in the Saiyaddar," she added with the utter certainty of the totally misinformed. "They would be killed on sight."

I indicated her with a sweep of my hand. "Behold," I intoned, "-the consequences of generations of illiteracy and willful ignorance."

Her gaze flashed to me, full of heat and ire. "You-" she spluttered.

I returned her look, with interest. "I?"

She paused, her nostrils flaring. I thought that I heard, very faintly, the telltale grind of molars. "Brown was a guide for Ghufran," she said tightly, when her immediate urge to kill me had apparently passed. "He brought us to Hlaunga. He knows the desert well. And he speaks-"

"He speaks too much," I interrupted her. I snapped my fingers at Brown. "How old are you, boy? Answer me."

"F-fifteen. Why?"

"And you have learned all of these things in such a short time?"

He shrugged awkwardly. "I have a knack for languages, I know how to read, and it's not really hard to find your way around as long as you have a good map." Wanly, he smiled. "I'm afraid I don't really have a knack for fighting, though. I always faint. Or trip. Or hide. Sorry. But I can be very quiet when I have to-"

I snorted. "That, I doubt."

He gazed up at me meekly. "I followed you, didn't I?" he asked. He did not wait for a response before moving on, which was fortunate. For him. "I've spent my life hiding. Mother told me to. I-" His eyes turned beseeching, and he returned them to the rapidly weakening little Bedine. "Please," he said softly. "No one else I've ever met…they'd never lift a finger against the Zhentarim. I've wanted to find out what happened to my family. I know they're probably all dead by now, but I…I have to know for sure. I have to. You're the first who might be able to help. You have to." A note of desperation entered his voice. "And I can help you. I know it. Just give me a chance."

The girl had already succumbed to Brown's boyish charm, that much was obvious. Her brown eyes were soft and full of pity.

Before she could do so, I stepped in. "I will speak with you now," I told her curtly.

Her eyes flickered to me. "Xanos-"

My temper spiked. My voice deepened to a growl. "Now."

Something in the timbre of my voice must have convinced her that it was wise to heed me. She stepped to my side, folding her arms over her chest and frowning in annoyed inquiry.

I lowered my voice. "You are making a very large mistake, little girl," I warned.

Her frown became confused. "What are you talking about?"

I twitched. "Do not play coy with me," I snarled. "You haven't the cunning for it. You are considering taking this fool up on his offer."

It was almost worth the aggravation of this entire incident to see the flabbergasted sag of her jaw and the bulge of her eyes at my statement. "How did you know?" she marveled.

"You are as transparent as glass," I said shortly. "You would have been subtler had you written 'sentimental fool' on a flag and waved it over your head for all to see."

That made her back stiffen and her lips tighten. "And what harm can it do to accept what he offers?" she retorted in an annoyed whisper.

"What harm?" I echoed incredulously. I felt an unwilling pang of sympathy for her family. Her father must have thrown himself on that stinger's halberd, just to get away from his own progeny. "What harm? Think, you idiot woman! Who knows how much he has overheard, and how much he has put together? This may all be a cleverly concocted lie, designed to elicit your sympathy. Do not allow it to cloud your judgement."

She was biting her lower lip again, catching it between her teeth as if masticating her own anatomy somehow aided her thought process. "Do we have any other alternatives?" she asked softly.

I spoke without hesitation. "We kill him," I said. It was a filthy thing to contemplate, but then, it was a filthy world we lived in, and I had not survived it so far by flinching in the face of these things. "We cannot afford to leave him behind, and we cannot afford to take him with us."

She did not flinch at my words. It was just possible, I would concede, that the woman was made of sterner stuff than that.

Still, she objected, because she could not take a breath without letting it out again as an argument. "He is only a boy," she hissed at me. "We cannot slaughter him in cold blood-"

"We do not know what he is," I returned grimly. "His story is piecemeal, and what there is of it does not fit. I do not like it, and I refuse to risk failure because I have welcomed an unknown and potentially hostile element with open arms." I studied her face, which was twisted with reluctance. "And, at fifteen, he is nearly past his boyhood, if his tender age is what concerns you," I added.

"That may be so," she agreed. "But there is still something very childlike about him, I think. He seems…lost."

"He is a guide, you nit. He does not get lost."

"That is not what I meant by lost, and you know it," she said shortly. She glanced over at him. Her face softened. "And I believe his story, even if you do not." Her eyes went steely. "If my tribe has run afoul of the Zhentarim, why not his? And would I have any claim to honor if I refused to help another in the same situation?"

I stared at her. "No," I said between clenched teeth. "This is absurd. I refuse even to consider-"

"Xanos." She put out her hand. "Please. Do not make me insist." She lowered her eyes guiltily. "I…I do not want to do that."

I stared at her for a moment longer. I was not certain which left me feeling more impotent: the leash around my neck, or her apparent guilt for having put it there. Both made something in me pace and snap furiously at the bars of some mental cage. Neither left me with any peace of mind at all. "If we are both killed in our sleep-" I began ominously.

"Then it will be far more peaceful than the alternatives that await us," she interrupted me calmly. "I fail to see the problem."

I strained several breaths through my gritted teeth. "You-"

She raised her eyebrows at me. "I?" she prompted, an infuriating note of challenge in her voice.

The woman had even begun to throw my own verbal barbs back in my face. This was unbearable. "You will live to regret this," I warned.

At that, she gave me a look far older than her eighteen years. "It will not be my first regret," she said, and turned to give our new companion the news.

I followed, seething. Brown was still cowering, though now it was a relieved and humble cower rather than a fearful one. The sight twisted my fury to a fever pitch.

I did not wait to hear the inevitable objections. I merely strode to the boy, lifted him from the ground, and held him at eye level. His feet dangled in the air.

"If Xanos so much as catches a whiff of ill intent from you," I said, my voice soft,"-he will twist your head off of your neck and do unspeakable things down the hole. Are we understood?"

Brown gulped. "U-understood," he stammered. " I'll be as quiet as a mouse. I promise. Not a word. Not even a peep. I'll help light the fires and cook and everything, and I won't be any trouble at all, you'll see. You won't regret this-"

I opened my hand and let him fall…which he did, collapsing like a pile of dirty brown laundry. "Too late," I said, and turned away from him before the sight of him drove me into an unreasoning rage. "I already do."


	32. Chapter 32

_Author's Note: Still alive. I lost my job, got another, lost that, and decided now was a good time to go to grad school instead._

_But I still haven't forgotten my stories! Just delayed them._

33.

The morning dawned in a dusty ochre haze, lightly tinged with rose.

It was a morning much like every morning in the Anauroch since the spirits of old had first cast the fires of the broken earth into the sky.

The predictability of it should have been comforting.

But, because I naturally lacked the sense to pour water from a boot, I was not comforted.

Instead, I spent the morning worrying.

It was pointless to obsess over what I could not control. I knew that. I knew that it did my people no good, and myself even less. It was impractical. Irrational. _Silly._

Nevertheless, I could not seem to help myself. My mind spun with fear – fear for my family, for my home, for the road ahead.

It did not help that there were few distractions out in the desert. The sky was cloudless. Above, a hunting bird circled, perhaps seeking out a basking lizard for its lunch. Nothing else moved. I wished it would. I thought I might almost have welcomed the sight of a tribe of laertis, or perhaps a stinger or two. At least it would have been a distraction.

Alas for my hopes of a distraction, there was only one figure on the horizon, and that one promised nothing but more grief.

It strode ahead of me, a brash and solitary sear of color against the desert's endless shades of brown. It did not look back.

I pulled my eyes away from it, scowling. It seemed that I was to be ignored again this day, just as I had been the day before, and the day before that, ever since I had insisted that Brown come with us.

Well, if that was the game we were to play, I would play it just as well as he. I had spent a lifetime learning to ignore my brothers. I was quite good at it. We would see which of us would crack first.

I did not know why I found the situation so frustrating. I had never enjoyed being the focus of anyone's attention. Most people were annoying and full of chatter. I preferred to be left alone, in silence.

I did not, therefore, understand why being ignored by this sorcerer made me want to kick him in the shin. Repeatedly.

Eventually, though, distractions did emerge, diverting my attention from my fears and my frustration.

The first one seemed no more than a pile of oddly-shaped rocks, at first. Then, as I neared it, there emerged a shape unlike that of any rock.

Yellowed spans of old, old bone arced up from the sand, forming a rib cage so massive that I could walk through the middle with my arms outstretched and still never reach the sides. A heavy girdle of bone slumped across it – collarbone and shoulders, perhaps, or so it seemed from their position, but I saw nothing which resembled the remains of legs, either front of back.

Then came a gap, there just past the shoulder, where the neck might have been, and beneath it lay a jumble of vertebrae. Many of the bones of the thing's great neck were gone, but those that remained described a long, sinuous curve in the sand.

The skull was still there, too. It was long and flattish, missing its lower jaw. The upper jaw was there, lined sparsely with a few sharp, wedge-shaped teeth. Eyeless and staring towards some far horizon denied to living sight, the skull looked so impossibly huge that I thought I might have been able to step into one empty eye socket and stand up inside its head.

It was altogether too strange, these gargantuan remains lying in the middle of so much trackless rock. They did not look like they belonged here.

For one thing, no beast of that size would be able to find enough food to survive in this region. It had been some miles since I had seen anything more than scattered tufts of sandgrass, stands of cactus, and, once in a rare while, a small herd of shaggy wild goat stripping the bark and leaves from the desert scrub.

For another, a creature of that size with no legs would have been hard-pressed to walk this far from the nearest oasis. My own legs ached as if someone had pounded them with a hammer from sunup to sundown.

Shading my eyes, I stopped. Then I raised a pointing finger towards the giant skeleton. "What is that?" I asked loudly.

No one immediately responded.

Then, behind me, a throat cleared. "Um," a boyish voice said diffidently. "I…I think I can answer that."

I felt a moment's spike of annoyance. It was not _his _voice I had half-hoped to hear. "Yes?" I heard the snap in my tone. I tried to erase it. I did not think I succeeded very well. "Do you have something to say, Brown?"

His foot scuffed, behind me and slightly to the left. "You asked what those bones were," he said, his voice humble.

I spared a brief look at him. He had his hands clasped before him, and his eyes were downcast. Why the sight should have made me feel more pity than annoyance, I did not know, but it did. "Yes," I sighed. This time, my voice was milder. "Do you have an answer for me, then?"

He bobbed his head and came up to walk beside me, though it might have been too charitable to name his method of locomotion a _walk. _His feet flung themselves ahead of his knees as if trying to outrun the rest of his body. It was not so much a walk as a collapse, indefinitely postponed. "I think they belonged to a sea creature that died here when this place was still, well, a sea," he said. His smile was wan and, for some reason, apologetic. "A…a reptile. Of the lesser kind, though, and it's been dead for ages, anyway," he added. His next smile was reassuring, or at least tried to be. "You needn't be afraid."

I stared at him blankly. "Afraid?" I echoed. I had seen plenty of dead things in my life. Some of them had even tried to kill me. This one showed no such animation. It was quite thoroughly dead. The only way it was likely to be able to hurt me was if I broke off one of its bones and hit myself over the head with it. "I am not afraid."

"Oh." Brown blinked. He uttered a nervous laugh. "Well, that's good. You'd probably only need to worry if you saw one of these old ones still living, though." He scratched his head thoughtfully. "Not that I've ever met any myself, mind. Then again, I've never been as far as the sea, so-"

I eyed him sideways. "I do not think I believe that this sea truly exists," I said.

A bassy rumble broke the silence. "Believe it or disbelieve it, little princess," Xanos drawled. He looked back over his shoulder at me. "The power of your conviction will not persuade the seas to dry up."

At last, the sorcerer had deigned to honor me with his words. I would almost have preferred it had he not. "Very well," I growled, and stabbed a finger at him. "Have _you_ seen this so-called sea, O all-knowing one?"

His eyes swept across me. Then he glanced away disdainfully. "One of them," he said.

I missed a step. "There is more than one?" I burst out, before I could stop myself.

He did not laugh out loud, but the bored curl of his lip and the mocking glint in his eye as he turned his face away spoke volumes.

Brown cleared his throat. It was a high-pitched, anxious sound. "There used to be one here," he offered in a rush. "They called it the Narrow Sea. A long time ago. Right here, as a matter of fact." He gestured skywards. "Right over our heads. Why, if we could walk back in time a few thousand years, we'd be walking along the ocean floor right now – or right then, I suppose you would say - with the fishes swimming along by our ears, and the surface would be _waaaaaaaaay _up there." Suddenly, he laughed, a delighted sound. "In fact, it would be so far up that the sunlight wouldn't even reach us where we were! Isn't that amazing?"

I thought of that, and shuddered. So much water in one place was purely unnatural. "I do not think I would like that," I said faintly.

Brown seemed to give that serious thought, so serious that he stepped on the side of his own foot with his other foot and was obliged to hop sideways a few steps to avoid falling. "Oh," he said breathlessly, and flashed a vague smile. "Well, neither would I, to tell you the truth. I love the sun. It's so lovely and warm, and I think there's no sight prettier than a good sunrise. I would hate to be where I could never see it. Wouldn't you?"

_What a peculiar sentiment._ The sun was the sun. I could not imagine feeling any particular affection for it. It simply was. "Then if this was once a sea, where did it end?" I asked skeptically. "It cannot have covered all the world, else there would have been no cities."

Brown waved a hand. "Oh, I don't know, exactly, but I know one shore must have ended near Orofin. Orofin used to be a port, you know."

I frowned. "A…port?"

"Um." The boy blinked, seeming surprised. In the sunlight, his eyes had an almost bronze hue to them. "A city. On the edge of the sea. When it's right next to the water, you call it a port. See?"

I considered that. "But it is no longer a _port_," I ventured, lingering curiously over the unfamiliar word.

"Oh, no," Brown laughed. "Not for ages and ages. But…well, there are these long stone quays that stretch out from the city's eastern side, you know? They used to go out into the harbor, and there were canals all through the city, too, in a pattern like rings and spokes," and here he sketched circles in the air with his finger, and invisible lines through them, "-just like wheels. There were five of them, way back when. Four went out from the fortress in the center, one in each of the cardinal directions, and one circled around the city, connecting the other four. Four spokes, one wheel. Of course, they're almost all collapsed or filled with sand, now, but you can still see the shape of them, if you go…" He broke off suddenly, a peculiar look coming over his face.

"If I go…?" I prompted, after an awkward silence. What was wrong with the boy?

Brown jumped at the sound of my voice, just as if he had forgotten that I was there. Taking advantage of his distraction, his left foot chose that moment to make a break for freedom. It did this by wandering across the path of his right foot, thus neatly entangling his shins.

The boy pitched forward with a yelp of surprise. He skidded a small distance away before stopping. Dust rose above his fallen form like a halo.

I stared after him, taking an instinctive half-step forward. Then I stopped. "Are you…all right?" I asked reluctantly.

Brown's head popped up. Sand fell from his face and hair in clumps. "What?" he mumbled. He blinked rapidly. "Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry. This happens rather a lot, I'm afraid. Some days it seems I can't tell up from down. I really am awfully sorry." His smile was abashed enough to give his words the ring of truth. It faded in a wince as he tried to push himself up. "Um," he said uncertainly. "Would you mind awfully helping me up? I…I think I might have hurt myself."

Helplessly, I looked after Xanos, but _he _was no help at all. He had not turned or slowed, and his rigid-shouldered stance said very clearly that Brown's antics were no concern of his. _"You wanted the fool,"_ his attitude seemed to say. _"Now you deal with him."_

I gritted my teeth, grabbed the boy's arm, and hauled him to his feet. More dust fell from his clothes, which were now more sand-colored than nut-colored. "What hurts?" I asked tersely.

Brown waggled his left hand back and forth experimentally. He winced again. "My, um, wrist," he said. "I think."

My eyebrows rose. "You think?" I repeated incredulously. One would think that if the injury pained him so, he would be more certain of its cause. Well, no matter. I set down my roll of supplies and located a short strip of linen, one of those I had scavenged from the dead at El Ma'ra. I mourned my brother, Malik, but if the bandages which had not saved him would keep me alive long enough to find our mother and free her, then I would beg his spirit's pardon and take what I needed from his corpse, and I did not think he would begrudge me. He had not been _that _much of a fool. Not really. "Hold out your arm," I instructed. My voice was harsher than I had intended it to be, but at least it made the boy obey. I anchored one end of the the linen strip around his thumb and began to wind it, starting where his hand joined his wrist, working my way halfway up to his elbow, and then back down again. Once the winding seemed thick enough to hold his wrist straight, I tied the loose ends off around his thumb, drew my belt knife, and slashed off the excess. "There," I said, and tucked the remainder away. "Does that help?"

The boy tested his arm. "A little," he admitted. He poked at his wrist with the fingers of his uninjured hand and began to smile in relief. "More than a little, actually. I say, how did you get to be so good at that?"

I shrugged. "A Bedine woman is expected to know how to bandage wounds," I said. "Our warriors take so many of them." In that, at least, I was as obedient as any mother could wish. "Follow me, and try not to fall again," I added, my voice curt. Perhaps if I picked out a clear path, the boy would be less likely to find something to trip over. Perhaps. "And tell me about Orofin." If we were to go there, perhaps it was best to learn all that I could – even from boys who could not govern their own feet.

Brown blinked at me. "Oh," he said, in tones of sudden dismay, as if I had asked him to describe the sound of one hand clapping. "Oh, dear. Um. All right." He took a breath and seemed to marshal his thoughts. "Okay. Let me see if I can explain."

We walked side-by-side for a time, while the sun climbed the sky, and the boy – he might have been only three or four summers younger than myself, and that made him old enough to be considered a man by most standards, but his manner was so queerly child-like that I could not bring myself to think of him as a man – told me of seas, and docks, and ships, and tides, and of how Orofin had once used them to rule.

And everywhere, water, so much water that one could not see one shore from the other. I could scarcely believe it. Then again, the legends did say that this land had once been green. For that, there had to have been water, and more of it than I could imagine. It was unfathomable, but then, I was only one person, and there were many things I could not fathom. Did that necessarily make them untrue?

I shook my head slowly. Not in denial, I supposed. I just felt as if I needed to settle my jumbled thoughts. "How do you know these things?" I asked wonderingly.

Brown shrugged. "Oh, there are stories everywhere," he said blithely. "All you have to do is ask, and people will tell them to you." His eyes took a far-off cast. "Mother used to tell us stories," he added softly. "It's strange. I remember the stories, but I don't remember the sound of her voice." He tried to laugh. "You would think I'd remember, wouldn't you? I heard it often enough. But I…I don't. Remember, I mean."

At a loss for what to say, I reached out and touched his shoulder with the tips of my fingers. My mother's bracelet was a warm, too-heavy weight on my wrist. "At least you have the stories," I said quietly. He relaxed at my touch, and gave me a shy sideways smile.

We walked on, and Brown talked. Nattered, really. I tried to listen, because it was poor manners to ignore even a chatterbox like Brown while he spoke, but it was difficult. I felt as if I was floating uneasily on a sea of words. Why, sometimes, when despite my best intentions my attention did wander, I brought it back only to find Brown talking excitedly to _himself_!

It was very bizarre. I did not understand it. Perhaps he did not talk to be heard, but talked just to fill the silence. It did prey on one's mind, that silence.

The sun climbed down the sky, making the Scimitar Spires loom above us. They truly did look like spires – great, towering fingers of stone so dark it was nearly black, like a forest of obelisks.

I had to crane my neck to see them. They had not looked so tall from a distance. As we came closer, though, I had begun to feel a peculiar sense of shrinkage, as if the Spires had not so much grown taller as I had gradually diminished to the size of an ant. It was an annoying sensation.

I found Brown looking up at them, too. He had stopped talking, and was gazing upwards in silence, his expression strangely melancholy - and perhaps a little fearful.

I shook my head. _Why be afraid of a mountain? _Outlanders were strange. That was all there was to it.

Brown looked away from the Spires and over to me, as if my headshake had caught his attention. He smiled at me, a soft, sad smile. "It's good to be back," he remarked wistfully. "It's been a long time since I came this close to the Spires."

I realized that my mouth was hanging open, and closed it. "You have been here before?" I asked faintly.

The boy shrugged. "I was born here," he said simply.

Was he mad? I did not think anyone could live among the Spires, but his voice was very matter-of-fact. Perhaps he was telling the truth. "I did not know that there were oases among the Spires," I said cautiously. All that I had heard said that the Scimitar Spires were even more desolate than the plains beneath them. Salt bloomed in the sand at their feet, killing any vegetation that tried to take root and poisoning any water that flowed there.

Brown's words upended my perceptions of my own land. Again. "Oh, there are some," he said, waving his hand as if to say that this was stating the obvious. "And hot springs, too, some of them even inside the rock. The Spires aren't as bad as people think." He looked up again, and smiled. "And the view from up top is amazing."

I looked up, too. My eyes got as far as two-thirds of the way up the nearest spire before I began to feel dizzy and was obliged to either look down again or tip over backwards. "That must be a very long climb," I said uncertainly. What else could I say? These outlanders were bizarre beyond all reason.

Brown just laughed. "Yes," he agreed, a strange note in his voice. "I suppose it must be, at that."

Then he caught sight of a drifting cloud – the only one in the sky, it seemed - and launched into a long, one-sided discussion of what its shape made him think of. I knew it was bad of me, but I stopped listening almost immediately. Manners were all well and good, but there were limits.

Eventually, my eyes wandered back to the stiff-shouldered figure who stalked ahead of us, with us yet quite emphatically apart. The distance seemed to have grown. Perhaps he was as tired of listening to Brown as I was.

"What_ is_ a half-orc?" I blurted, interrupting Brown in the middle of some reminiscence about his time with the D'Tarig.

Brown stopped in mid-sentence looked at me, plainly startled. "You mean you don't know?" he asked incredulously.

Color flooded my face. I was not certain which was more embarrassing – the fact that I had interrupted him in such a mannerless way, or that my interruption had so obviously betrayed my ignorance. "No," I said shortly.

"Oh." Brown scratched his head. "Well, um. Right. Okay. Well, basically, half-orcs are what you get when humans mate with orcs."

I blinked. "Oh," I said. My blush deepened. "Ah…what is an orc?"

Brown blinked back owlishly. "You really don't know?" he marveled.

If my cheeks grew any hotter, I thought my skin might burst and peel off like the skin from a grape. "Would I be asking you these questions if I already knew the answers?" I said tightly.

The boy ran the palm of his hand over his hair, knocking a few more grains of sand loose. "No, I suppose not," he admitted blithely. "You know, it even makes sense that you wouldn't know! Isn't that amazing? You see, orcs can't abide this heat. They hardly ever come into the desert if they can help it."

I frowned at that. "Where do they come from, then?" I asked curiously.

"The mountains, mostly," Brown replied. "The mountains are almost always cooler, and orcs like to live in caves, when they can." He sniffed disdainfully. "Waste of a perfectly good cave, if you ask me," he opined. "Orcs are just so _messy_, and even after they leave you can never get the smell out."

This, from a person who had travelled with the D'Tarig. "Yes, but what are they really _like_?" I asked.

"Orcs? They're nasty brutes, for the most part," Brown said flippantly. "Very nasty. Not very smart – not smart at all, really - and not very brave unless they can attack in large groups, but they love fighting." His lips drew down. "And killing."

I blinked at Xanos's garishly garbed back. "Um," I said.

"Um what?"

"That...did not make sense. Did you just say that orcs are not very smart?"

Brown followed my glance. "Oh," he said then. "I see what you mean. Well, half-orcs can be smarter than your average orc, since they have human blood. And some can be as smart as any human," he added grudgingly. "A few."

I gnawed on my lip. "Do…do orcs look much like humans?" I asked tentatively. Xanos did not look entirely…normal. Perhaps this was why.

"Um. Sort of. But their skin's sort of grayish-green. And they have great, big fangs. Not much hair, thank goodness. If they were hairy, too, they'd be too ugly to bear." Brown shuddered. "Not that they should be borne. Evil things."

I looked at him sideways. "You do not like them," I observed.

Brown spluttered. "Of course not! They're ugly, and smelly, and they kill for fun," he said indignantly. "Why should I like them?"

"But if they are so vile, then how-" I groped for words. _Oh, spirits. _I was blushing again. I nearly gave up on my question, but that needle's prick of unseemly curiosity urged my forward. "That is to say, why-"

"Why would any right-minded human mate with them?" Brown finished, so cheerfully unabashed that I blushed twice as hard – once for my own embarrassment, and again for his complete lack of it. "I think it's usually the women who do. And, um, I think it's more the other way 'round. The orcs, um." He coughed. "They don't usually, um. You know. Ask. Before."

"Oh," I said, faintly. _Strange._ I had never considered that Xanos might have had a mother. He would have had one, of course. Peculiar as he was, he was still flesh and blood. I knew. I had drawn some of that blood myself.

_That poor woman, _I thought suddenly, my heart torn in pity. Whoever the sorcerer's mother had been, first she had been dishonored, and then she had been obliged to bear a babe who would remind her always of her shame. The women in my tribe had sometimes whispered of such things. Some of the women who had borne their defiler's child came to set aside their shame and love the child. Others became bitter and full of rage. Which had she been?

_And the babe? _a voice inside me wondered quietly. The sins of the father could be atoned for, the bloodline eventually washed clean from shame, but how could a child atone for his own existence, when his very existence was the outcome of a crime against the woman who had borne him?

Troubled, I turned my attention back to Brown, who was still speaking. "Not to worry, though," he was saying cheerfully. "Some half-orcs are truly _orcish_, but there are times when Xanos seems almost human." His eyes flickered towards the half-orc. Belatedly, he lowered his voice to a mutter. "Sometimes."

_Almost human. _It was a casual statement, spoken thoughtlessly in the way that Brown so often spoke. In a way, that made it worse. '_Almost' human, _I thought, _is not so different from saying 'less than' human._

I wondered what it would do to one of Xanos's pride to be considered _less than _anything or anyone.

I thought I might know. I had always been _less than_, in one way or another. Less beautiful than my mother. Less obedient than Zebah. Less clever than Hammad. Less strong than my brothers. Less learned than Ali.

No, I did not think that being considered _less than_ would please that outlander. _Infuriate. Humiliate_. But never please, no more than it had ever pleased me.

We trudged through the waning day. The heat and exertion began to turn my legs to lead, and Brown began to stumble with increasing regularity. Once, he nearly put his foot into a nest of fire ants. I had to take his elbow and yank him away. Another time, he gestured so emphatically while wrapped in another one of his long, rambling monologues that I was obliged to either duck his outflung hand or get backhanded across the face. I chose to duck.

Thus, when he tripped over a pebble and fell face-down in the bottom of a dry creekbed, I was not certain whether to laugh, to cry, or to scream.

I hauled him upright. "Will you _please _watch where you put your feet?" I cried in exasperation.

The boy swayed into a sitting position. "I always watch," he protested sheepishly. He rubbed his wrist. "It's just that I get so busy watching, sometimes I forget what I'm watching for."

Spoken like a true idiot. "Oh, for the love of the spirits, will you just get moving?" I growled, and gave him a gentle push to help him along. Actually, it was more of a shove, but I decided not to dwell too long on this distinction.

It was not until his shadow left the creekbed that I saw the stone half-buried in the sand where he had fallen, shining bright purple in the sun. Curiously, I stooped to pick it up. It nestled in my palm, a roughly square chunk of rock with a forest of blunt crystals thrusting up from it like teeth. The crystals shaded all the way from a deep shade of lavender at their points to a milky, barely opaque white at their roots.

Brown peered over his shoulder. He gasped and stumbled to a stop. "Is that an amethyst?" he asked eagerly.

I turned the gem over in my hands. It was small and uncut. I did not think the hand of man had ever touched it. "I…I think it is," I said. "Zebah and I-" My voice broke. I had to stop and clear my throat before going on. "My sister and I used to find gems like this in the wadi at home." Sometimes, rocks came loose from the cliffs. Other times, our oasis would overflow, and the little stream that led from it would surge from a trickle to a flood, and when it subsided, its bed would sparkle with newly-uncovered treasures. "Sometimes we would bring them back to our mother, if we thought they were pretty enough."

We had been scolded for it, of course. At least, I had been. It had actually been Zebah's idea, but everyone had assumed that such a harebrained idea could only have come from Nadiya.

I had not disabused them of the notion. The usual switching that was my punishment was something that Zebah could never have endured, but I was as strong as an ox, and as stubborn. What else was I made for but enduring?

Brown half-raised his hand towards the little gem. "It's so pretty, the way it sparkles," he breathed. His smile slipped, a little. His hand stretched a little further towards mine. "May I…may I touch it?"

A truly unsettling gleam of avarice had lit the boy's calfish eyes. Something about it made me cup my other hand over the gem, hiding it from view. "No," I said.

"Oh." He stared at it longingly, his hand still outstretched. "But-"

"No." I clutched the gem to my chest in both hands. It was childish, I knew, but there was that _look_ in his eyes. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "'Tis mine, and you cannot have it."

The boy let his hand drop, the avarice fading from his eyes. His slight pout was disappointed. "Well," he sighed. "I suppose you did find it first. Finders, keepers, eh? Fine. I won't touch it at all. I promise." He sketched an 'X' over his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die!" Then he looked at my face. His, if possible, fell even further. "Aw. Don't you believe me? Why don't you believe me?"

"I-" Did I believe him? I did not know. "I…think it is imprudent to make such vows in jest," I said at last.

Brown huffed indignantly and stamped his foot. "It wasn't a jest!" he pouted. Then he paused, thoughtful. "Well, not really," he added candidly. "I wouldn't ever take somebody else's sparklies. It's not right."

Sometimes I felt less and less as if I was talking to a young boy and more and more as if I had a bright-eyed toddler at my heels. "Perhaps we will find another one for you," I sighed, pocketing the gem. I would keep it, I decided. Perhaps I would be able to trade it for something more useful.

The boy beamed as if I had made him a solemn vow. "Truly?" he chirped. "Oh, that would be marvelous." He stopped, then, and his eyes flickered towards Xanos, who still strode ahead with no sign of stopping or even slowing. "Maybe we should find one for him, too," the boy mumbled.

I glanced at Xanos. "I do not think it would please him very much," I said sourly. Very little seemed to do so.

"Why not?" Brown asked earnestly. "I mean, he must like sparklies, too, or else why would he wear those clothes?"

I was not sure whom my choked-out giggle surprised more – Brown, or myself.

Eventually, the shadows lengthened until the footing became treacherous, even for me. When we neared a likely-looking outcropping, Xanos called a halt. He did this by stopping, holding up his hand, and then pointing imperiously at the would-be shelter. No further communications, it seemed, were forthcoming.

I uttered an inarticulate growl and gestured to Brown, who trailed after me obediently. "He likes to give orders, doesn't he?" the boy whispered to me.

I grunted. I did not trust myself to reply. Drawing my sword and gathering my robes in my fist, I clambered up the side of the outcropping. A _jer-jer-ub_, a skinny little lizard with yellow-brown skin and hind legs almost like a hare's, sprang away at my approach and vanished into a crevice in the rock. I wished that I had seen it before it jumped – they were not bad to eat, if one had the patience to pick off the meat from those tiny bones.

After determining that no further lizards or scorpions or spiders seemed to be present, I peered downwards. Below, there was a good-sized hollow between one clump of finger-like boulders and the other. Bushes grew in the gap, but if we were careful with our fire, I thought they would not be a problem. "We will need a roof," I said, and jumped back down. "Help me with this, before the light is gone."

With the camel sold, a tent was too heavy for us to carry, but Xanos had thought to buy a small square of canvas in Hlaunga, and with Brown's help I made quick work of stretching it across the outcropping and securing the ends of it with rope. It formed a slightly slanted roof, so that if the wind picked up, the sand it deposited onto our makeshift roof would not bring the entire thing down on our heads.

Because we could not build a large fire so much out in the open, we contented ourselves with a cold and silent dinner. That is to say, Brown and I did. Xanos took up his customary position at the outer edge of the hollow, his back to the rocks, looking out. He did not deign to eat with this. I hoped that he did eat something. He ate far too little. Mortal man could not live on stubbornness alone.

He was still there once we had finished. I wrapped myself in my blankets, determined to ignore him. _If he wants to starve, let him starve_, I thought sullenly. _I am not his mother_.

The night deepened. I did not sleep, though I knew I should. Too many thoughts warred for space inside my head. I had been able to keep them at bay while I walked and listened to Brown talk.

Now, in the silence, the worries came creeping back in.

My life had become very strange. Never before would I have expected that I would find myself wishing to have my ears filled with brainless chatter, yet there I was, wishing for exactly that.

_Let the boy sleep. _Tomorrow would be long, and the day after that, spirits willing, even longer, because we would soon be in Orofin. We would all need our strength for that.

Gradually, as I lay curled in my blankets and thinking, I became aware of a familiar scent. It was so soft, that at first I did not know it for it was, only that I knew it, and that the memory of it was bittersweet.

A soft voice whispered across the encampment. "Nadiya!" I heard Brown hiss excitedly. The moon was bright, and I saw his hand lift, pointing at something. "Look."

I did so, sitting up and twisting around in my blankets. Then my heart twisted, too. The bushes in our hollow were blooming. That was the source of the scent, those silver-pale flowers that were unfolding under the moon's light.

I heard Brown wriggle closer. His whisper was low and excited. "Aren't they pretty?" he gushed. "I think they only bloom at night. It's the only time I've ever noticed them, anyway."

I swallowed. "They do," I said. _Night-blooming jasmine_. It was a wonder I had not recognized it. Perhaps the long walk truly had baked my brains. "Our mother wore a perfume made from flowers like these." I grimaced. "_Wears_," I corrected myself firmly. In spite of myself, though, my voice wavered. "Though I suppose the Zhentarim will not allow her such a luxury now."

Brown fell silent for an uncharacteristically long while. I could not see it in the dark, but I thought I felt his eyes on me. Then, with equally uncharacteristic solemnity, he said, "I'm sorry."

I turned my head and gave him a blank stare. "Why?" I asked. The boy was strange. That was all there was to it. "Are you responsible for that which has befallen my tribe?"

Brown's jaw dropped. "What? No! Never! I'd never do that to-" he sputtered indignantly. Of a sudden, his sputters trailed off. Then, just as suddenly, his indignation fled. Sorrow took its place. "I only…I only wish I could stop it. It's wrong, what they do. I wish someone would stop them." A whine of frustration entered his voice. "I'm not strong enough. I can't. But I wish someone would."

I looked away. My eyes blurred. "Wishing is for fools and for dreamers," I said shortly.

"Oh, I don't know," Brown said thoughtfully, after a moment. "Dreams aren't so bad. At least they make the waking times easier."

I stared at the broken branch of jasmine. "I find that dreams make the waking times harder," I said softly.

The boy cocked his head at me. "Why?" he asked, with that artless curiosity which seemed to come so naturally to him.

I laid back again, trying to find the words for an answer. "Dreams are sweet," I said at last. "But they are sweet lies, and when you wake, you must face the truth all over again. I do not like that. Best to face the truth once and get it over with."

Brown was quiet again. "That's an awfully depressing way to look at it," he murmured eventually.

Past the edge of the canvas, I watched the stars glimmer. "It is the only way to look at it," I said softly. Then I turned away, closing my eyes. The truth was that my mother and sister were most likely gone beyond saving, and with them our tribe's hope of survival. The truth was that I would keep looking for them, because if I could not save them, at least I could die trying. That way I would not have to live with the loss. "Sleep," I ordered. Where no one could see it, I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. "Dreams or no dreams, morning will come soon enough."


	33. Chapter 33

The next day, we reached the edge of the Zhentarim territory of Orofin.

I knew this, because as soon as we cleared one last, rocky ridgeline and saw the grey mass of the ruined city bulking on the horizon, Xanos held up his hand for a halt and announced as much.

"Behold," he said, to no one in particular. "The great maritime city of Orolin." Then he laughed shortly and swept a hand out, beckoning for me to come see. "Or at least what is left of it."

I had gone so long without hearing his voice that I jumped when he spoke. Then, furious with myself for jumping, I shot him a scowl and stalked up to join him on ridge.

Beyond the ridge I saw a sea of grey and gold, pitted and pocked where wind and time had eaten the stone away. From this distance, it was hard to see any details. The same held for the city itself. To my eye, one collapsed wall looked much like another, though I thought I could see the traces of that spoked pattern Brown had described. In the center of the city bulked something even larger, a building taller than the rest, with a domed roof which reminded me, strangely, of the temple back home, but I could distinguish no more details than that.

Orofin was something of a disappointment, truth be told – just a gray ruin, still as death.

I looked on it, gathering my robes more tightly around me as I did so. In one corner of my mind, I wished very devoutly that I had not come to stand so close to the mage. There was an air about him, an aura of magic radiating outward like the heat from a fire. It made my head spin and my skin prickle as if I was being poked by a thousand tiny, red-hot needles. It was not a comfortable sensation.

Now that I was there, though, I could not in good manners back away again. Besides, _he_ would surely take it as a sign of cowardice, and I thought I would rather shave my head bald than appear a coward before the one who had killed Kel-Garas. "I expected something grander," I said at last, my voice dubious.

The half-orc shot me a look that suggested I had just told him that the sky was green with purple stripes. "Grander?" he retorted indignantly. "Orolin was a city of _magic_, the likes of which the world has not seen since! Grander? You see before you the ruins of true civilization! Only one of the flying cities themselves could be any grander than what lies in that valley!" He flung his hand out towards the ruined city as if he might make me understand him with the force of his gestures alone. "In Orolin, even the humblest citizen had access to magical artifacts which would make the finest creations of our era seem like children's toys," he proclaimed, as animated as I had ever seen him. "In Orolin, every member of the public had easy access to teleportation, which rendered the cruder forms of transportation obsolete. Enchanted objects performed all of the menial tasks – planting, harvesting, building, food preparation, sanitation. Everything! Free of such labors, all were free to trade and study at their leisure. Think – no brainless chores, and no labor but research." He spread both of his hands, then, his eyes shining. "How much more accomplished would its people be, freed of that? Every citizen a scholar, every new generation building on the knowledge of those before it, always striving for perfection in their art. Orolin was a metropolis of the mind, little princess. Grand?" He barked a laugh. "In its heyday, Orolin made Myth Drannor look like a bloody backwater!"

It was astounding. A few days and nights of sulking and rigorously refusing to speak to me – that is to say, to _us_, both myself and Brown – and now he not only refused to shut up, he was as amiable as if our quarrel had never been.

It was enough to make me want to kick him until his shins bled, just so that I could be sure he would stay angry. At least if he was always angry he would be more predictable.

I put my hands on my hips. "Then answer me this, O all-knowing one," I growled. "If Orofin was so powerful, why did it die?"

Xanos stared down at me, rubbing his chin as if surprised to have found me there and wondering what to do with me. "It was struck by a plague," he answered slowly. "Some say that Talona herself had a hand in it. It is difficult to know for certain whether that is true, given her church's penchant for secrecy, but I find it a credible explanation. No ordinary plague would have been so deadly. Any plague of natural origin, no matter how terrible, will take at least a day or two to kill the individual, and more to wipe out an entire population. This one, though, was near-instantaneous. Every man, woman, and child fell ill and died within the day." He laughed shortly, with no sign of humor, and lowered his hand. "And so, in one fell swoop, great Orolin sank into dust, its treasures looted and the memory of their making lost with their makers." From his tone, I did not know which he found more tragic – the lost treasures, the lost memories, or the lost people.

I shook my head. _Outlanders._ They tried and tried to establish permanence in an impermanent world. They never understood that everything died, eventually. Even cities.

_But still we cling to life_ _beyond all reason,_ I thought, and abruptly I decided that I could not blame these ancient outlanders for fighting so hard for what they believed in, even if what they believed in was that they could avoid the inevitable. Or else what was I doing here, in this place, with a coward and a mage as my only allies in a hunt that was almost certainly doomed to failure?

I looked back to the grey city. "It is said that the mages of old had the power to stop the sun," I said quietly. "Strange, that their magic could not stop this."

The sorcerer followed my gaze. His jaw tightened. "Power…" he said, and stopped. I could not tell whether it was because he did not know what he wished to say, or because he knew and had stopped himself from saying. "Power is no guarantee of safety," he said at last. "Often, the more power one has, the more danger one is in." His grin was tight and bleak and did not touch his eyes. "Especially where greater powers are involved, and there is always a greater power. Always." He paused. Then, reflectively, he added, "Unless you are Ao, but only people I have seen give the so-called overgod's existence any credence were a passel of crack-brained slack-jaws who were most likely three sheets to the wind on their own sacramental wine in any event and could not reliably be trusted to report on the color of their own underwear, much less the existence or non-existence of supernatural entities."

I tried to unravel that statement. I thought that I did not know half of the things I would have needed to know in order to make sense of it. _Three sheets to the wind? Sacramental wine? Why not water? Surely that would be more precious to the spirits than wine. _Bemused, I settled on what seemed to be the most obvious question. "Who is Ao?" I asked.

Xanos raised an eyebrow. It was black as sin, sharply arched, and so galling that I was tempted to rip it from his face with my bare hands. _Hair by hair_. "Xanos just told you," he said genially. "Weren't you listening?"

Why had I thought that his silence had been punishment? Compared to this, it had been bliss. "I was," I said from between clenched teeth. "You were not making any sense."

"I was making perfect sense. You simply were not listening well enough."

"I would have listened better had you made any sense."

"This is a very circular argument we seem to have fallen into. May we stop, or do you intend to go on with this indefinitely?"

"It is not an argument."

"Oh?" His eyes sparked with djinn-like mischief. "What is it, then?"

"It is you being stubborn and refusing to explain."

"Truly? Xanos thought it was about _you_ being stubborn and refusing to listen." He stopped and put his head to one side, and added brightly, "My, my, my. Is that the sound of grinding teeth I hear? Take heart, little princess. If this noble savage business ever loses its luster, you will still have a bright future as a grist mill."

Perhaps if I just strangled him…_no_. If I strangled him, he would never answer my questions. I glared at him. "Ao," I said forbiddingly, my hands on my hips. I tried not to tap my foot. It was hard. "Explain_. Now_."

The sorcerer seemed amused. _Amused! _ But at least he obeyed. "Ao is reputed to be the god of the gods," he explained at last. "The supreme sentient entity in the multiverse. The world-maker. The prime mover. There are men who pray to him, though his existence is a subject of considerable debate, and he certainly never answers their prayers – thus perpetuating the debate, because until Ao's voice cries out of the heavens and proclaims that he does not exist, these fools will persist in believing that he does."

I frowned at him. My temper cooled, momentarily drowned in fascination. "But if he were to say that he existed, it would only prove that he did exist," I argued.

"Yes. You see the problem."

I rolled my eyes. "I see that those men do not have the sense the gods gave a goat," I stated.

"You insult a noble race with that statement."

I snorted. "Which?" I asked tartly. "The men, or the goats?"

The sorcerer's answering laugh startled me. It seemed to come from nowhere and nothing to boom across the silent desert like a thunderclap.

I realized that I was close to chuckling, myself. I raised a hand to my mouth, annoyed by my lapse. I did not laugh. I had no sense of humor. Everyone who knew me knew that. "Why do you call this place Orolin?" I demanded irritably, changing the subject. "I thought its name was Orofin."

Brown spoke up. "It is, now," he said helpfully. "But on the old maps, sometimes, you see it written as Orolin." The boy shrugged. "Maybe it was a mistranscription. _Orofin _or _Orolin, _they're just one letter apart. All it really needed was a scribe with sloppy handwriting."

"And so Amaunator, Netherese god of sun and law," Xanos intoned sententiously, "…becomes A'tar, Bedine goddess of the sun, though the rule of law seems to have fallen with the Empire. By the same token did Ascalhorn, the seat of the Eaerlanni elves, become the mouth of Hell for a few hundred years, though depending on your opinion of the elven race that may not have been much of a change." He grinned sardonically. "Names change," he added in a more normal tone of voice. "So do the things which are named. Perhaps it is the naming itself which shapes them, or perhaps the name only shapes the idea of them in men's minds. Who knows?"

I frowned, crossing my arms over my chest. This was all very instructive, but… "I do not think that you stopped us here just to discuss philosophy," I said, nodding at the city below.

Xanos grinned agreement. "Hah! No. No, indeed." From some deep pocket on the inside of his mantle – I though it a clever idea, that pocket, though it was only possible with an open mantle like his, and most likely not with a full robe such as mine – he pulled out two wide, hinged metal collars. Then he threw one to me, and the other to Brown. "Here, put this on," he instructed. Offhandedly, he added, "Oh, and take your robe off."

Reflexively, I snagged the collar out of the air without looking. My jaw dropped. "_What?!_" I shrieked. From the corner of my eye, I saw Brown lift the other collar to his nose and sniff at it curiously. Even that oddity could not dispel my shock. "Are you mad?!" It was the only possible explanation.

Xanos rolled his eyes. "Not this again," he growled impatiently. "Hellfire, woman, must you act as if I just told you to strip naked and give a lap dance to the entire godsdamned Tethyrian royal army?" He pointed a finger at me. "_Take. It. Off. _I know damned well that you have other clothes on under there, and if you wear that getup into Orofin, you might as well paint a price on your forehead and slap a pair of manacles on your wrists, because you will surely be hauled off to the block before you can so much as blink."

I shook – with anger or fear, I did not know, but that circle of metal burned in my hands like shame. "B-but why-"

He slashed his hand impatiently, cutting off my stammers. "The collar?" he finished my question for me. "Because you are to be Xanos's slaves, that is why. Both of you." His lip curled, baring a too-sharp incisor. "And it will be a lie, so you need not stare at me in that accusatory way," he added disgustedly. "No one will be buying anyone. It is simply that no one in their right mind would believe that a Bedine girl and a beardless boy would have scraped up enough coin to afford a slave of their own - and robes or no robes, princess, no one will be able to look at your face and take you as anything other than Bedine. The only way they will accept your presence is if you are seen to be safely collared. Free, you are a threat. Leashed, you are just a commodity."

I swallowed carefully. "I…I see." And I did. But I could not make myself move.

The half-orc studied me, his eyes unreadable. "Squeamishness?" he said softly. "From you? How disappointing. I took you for a warrior, not a mewling child. Or do you think your sister would not welcome a false collar over the real one she now wears?"

A tight knot formed in my belly. I swallowed, trying to force it down. _Spirits help me. _He was right. And he was bound to help me. He could not harm me. And he had given me our mother's bracelet. He had not been bound to do that. I had to trust him. "I understand." And I did. Whatever Zebah was enduring, it was surely worse than this. I could not allow my own fears to cost my sister her freedom. I could not.

_Whatever it takes. _ I fixed my sister's face in my mind and clicked the collar around my neck. It felt far colder and heavier than it had any right to. _I will do what I must_.

Then I went behind a rock and began to undo my robes, occasionally peeking out to make certain the men were keeping their eyes turned away. _I am the blood of al-Rashid_, I reminded myself. _I am the blood of al-Rashid, and I will do my duty._

Of course, there was a good chance that I might die of humiliation in the process, but no one had ever said that doing one's duty should be pleasant.

On the far side of my rock, Xanos was pacing. "Say nothing unless absolutely necessary," he instructed us both impartially. "Even then, guard your tongue well. The less said, the less you will draw suspicion." The half-orc stabbed a finger at Brown. "And _you _will say nothing at all," he added grimly. "If necessary, I will say that I have removed your tongue, and you will keep your lips sealed tighter than an Imaskari tomb so as to encourage that belief. Do we understand each other?"

Brown stared at the collar, running its edge through his fingers so that it turned 'round and 'round. His lips tightened. "We do," he said faintly. Then he looked up, eyes uncertain. "Um. What kind of slaves are we supposed to be?"

Xanos snorted and made a negligent gesture, a quick flick of his hand. "Her Highness may do as a body guard," he said. "She may be small, but she handles a sword very convincingly, and in any case Xanos doubts that we will be able to convince anyone that she is a bed slave. Bed slaves are supposed to simper and be alluring, not scowl and threaten to gut people. You, on the other hand…" The sorcerer trailed off thoughtfully. "Can you read?" he asked suddenly.

"Y-yes. Of course."

"Excellent. In that case, you may be my scribe and personal assistant. Your tasks will be to carry my personal effects, receive messages, write my correspondence, and above all, be _silent._"

Brown scratched his head. "I…I suppose I can do that," he said. He did not sound very convinced.

"Xanos is not asking you to _suppose_. I am asking you to do. Can you or can you not do as you are told, or must I go against her Highness's wishes and leave you staked out in the desert for the vultures ?" The half-orc bared his teeth in a smile that was as friendly as a viper's. "Believe me, it will be no trouble."

The boy went still. He cocked his head, looking at the sorcerer from the corners of his eyes. The look in his eyes was strange, filled with sadness and a sudden, simmering anger. "I don't fear your fire, sorcerer," he said softly. "Killing me might be more trouble than you think."

The sorcerer met the boy's stare. He looked simultaneously intrigued and furious, like a cat who had just had its whiskers yanked by a mouse and was wondering whether to kill the mouse immediately or to let it live as a reward for its audacity. "Will it?" he asked, just as softly.

Brown met the sorcerer's stare for a moment longer. Then he turned his head away. "I'll do it," he said. His voice was sullen, his eyes averted. "There's no need to yell."

"Hah! With fools like you, there is always that need."

_Enough. _They would bicker all day if I did not end it. Resolutely, I bundled my robe as tightly as I could and packed it away.

Then I took a deep, wavering breath. And then another. And another.

_Look on the positive side, _I told myself. Even my thoughts wavered. _At least I will be cooler this way._

Then I stepped out from behind the rock. "I am ready," I announced briskly. Briskness was the key. I could not give the words time to tangle themselves together in the back of my throat. "Shall we go?"

Xanos turned in mid-pace, glanced at me, and almost immediately tripped over a rock. He caught himself well short of falling, but from the way his face darkened, one might have thought that the rock had leapt up and hit _him. _"Who put that there!?" he screamed, hopping on one foot.

Brown eyed him uncertainly. The ring of metal around his neck looked somehow…wrong. Certainly its silvery hues did not complement his coloring. Gold would, or bronze, but not silver. "Um. The gods, I suppose," he offered. His eyes brightened thoughtfully. "Of course, it could always be there as the result of thousands of years of cumulative geological processes combined with random chance, but then, that wouldn't be a _who_ so much as a _what_-"

Xanos stopped hopping. He appeared to be gritting his teeth. "Shut. Up."

Brown blinked. "Er. Right. I'll just stop talking now." He blinked again. "You know, it's harder than it seems?" he added conversationally. "You should try it sometime, it's actually sort of fun. It's like a game! See, because things just pop into your head and you just have to say them, it's like a compulsion, you can practically feel them creeping up to the tip of your tongue and then of course you have to say them because if not they'll just hang there and you'll hardly be able to say anything else at all and then-"

"_Shut up_!"

_Oh, sweet spirits_. Was it possible to shrivel up into a little ball from shame? I thought it might be. Self-consciously, I hunched my shoulders forward and crossed my arms over my chest. "Does it…does it make me look too…forward?" I asked faintly.

Brown considered me. "I don't see how," he said frankly. Then, just as I had begun to sag in relief, he added, "If you went any further forward, you'd tip right over and fall on your face. I say, those must be a right nuisance. I've never understood how you people can stand them. Don't they get in your way?" Belatedly, he stopped, and took in our stares. "What?" he asked, wide-eyed with bewilderment. "Why are you all looking at me like that? What did I say?"

I felt the blood drain from my face. "I cannot go in there," I said. My voice was high and breathless. Was this what hysteria felt like? "I cannot."

Xanos seemed to be staring at some point behind my left shoulder. "Yes, you can," he said, still from between clenched teeth. "Now, get moving. Daylight is wasting."

I nodded jerkily. _Blood of al-Rashid, _I thought quiveringly, and began walking.

Behind me, Xanos made a strangled noise. "Nine Hells, woman!" he barked suddenly. "Not in front of me. Get behind me! Behind!"

I flushed and did as he said, falling back into step with Brown, who gave me a sympathetic smile but, thank the spirits, did not speak.

The sorcerer led us toward Orofin in ominous silence, and I followed behind, chewing on my lower lip while one thought, above all, repeated itself in my mind:

_I hope my mother never finds out about this._


	34. Chapter 34

The Zhentarim had bastardized, vandalized, and defaced the stately old city of Orolin as only they knew how:

Badly. And in extremely poor taste.

The walls, half-collapsed, stretched out in a rough semicircle. None were entirely intact. Some had been shored up with rubble, others with metal. Most had been left to ruin. The least damaged ones still showed the remnants of writing. Runescript, perhaps. I could not quite make it out, not at this distance. My eyes were made for shadowy places, not this brash and interminable sunlight.

Within the walls, the dusty remains of buildings rose up along a skeletal network of avenues, organized in concentric circles spiraling inwards to a tall, domed tower at its heart. Half-buried canals cutting through the circling streets like the spokes of a wheel. Orderly gaps in the ruins hinted at ancient parks and orchards, long since gone to dust.

The layout of the city was just as Findleth had described in his _Post-Imperial Netheril: Hlondath, Anauria, and the Independent Kingdom of Asram_. Bloody long title for an even longer book, but even Findleth's lavish descriptions paled next to the real thing. To see it with my own eyes was a wonder almost worth the price of admission. Almost.

Wondrous though it may have been, however, most of the ruin was lifeless, save for a cluster of activity in the southeastern corner. Walls of rubble bounded that section, the fortifications cutting almost arbitrarily across the ancient streets. They had the look of a construction in motion, put up when and where needed without regard for the surrounding architecture. I wondered how many of the ancient buildings had been dismantled to build those defenses. Probably a few. Some of those new walls sliced right through the foundations of the old palaces.

Orolin had been a city of scholars. Now it was a corpse, and rather than leave it some dignity in death the Zhentarim had preferred to strip it of its valuables and then engage in a little necrophilia for good measure.

Drogan had been right. I had been wrong. The Zhentarim were vultures. They had no respect for learning, only for power, and Undrentide had taught me what power for power's sake was worth: madness, disaster, and death.

_Drogan will laugh his arse off when I tell him that he was right all along, _I thought reflexively, not actually thinking. Then memory caught up and hit me like a shovel. I would not be telling Drogan anything. Not now, not ever again.

Grimacing, I moved on. I had seen what I could. No use lingering. If I stood still too long, I would only navel-gaze myself into insanity or suicide, and that accomplished nothing of use.

The approach to the southeastern gate was long and barren. Sand hissed. Flies buzzed. Metal glinted in the shade of the gate's arch – guardsmen, no doubt.

There were more runes over the archway. I stopped well short of the gate and studied the runescript curiously, squinting against the sunlight. The writing swam reluctantly into focus.

The dwarf had taught me what he was able, but he had been no expert on the subject, and literature on Netherese runescript was rare outside of arcane universities. A university was no place for a poor half-orc boy. Gods knew what I might do if allowed in. Piss all over the carpets and chew on the furniture, perhaps. As a result, I had had to content myself with the dwarf's knowledge and whatever else I had been able to scrounge.

Nevertheless, I thought I could make sense of some of the runes. A gouge in the arch's keystone half-obscured the scythelike curve of a _grekhan _rune. That represented the element of earth, if I remembered my lessons correctly – which, needless to say, I did. Then, next to the _grekhan_, to the left along the curve of the archway, was the bottom of a tight spiral, a corkscrew with a cutting edge. _Nanton, _entropy, and if I did not miss my guess, there would be a _taathor_, a stop rune in there as well.

_Fascinating_, I thought. I knew that the kingdoms formed after the fall had not had access to mythallars to protect their cities. This must have been their solution, or a part of it - rune magic to hold back the stone's decay due to time and weathering. It was a cruder form of magic than the mythal, but as the old dwarf had been fond of reminding me, only a fool made perfection the enemy of the good.

A foot scuffed behind me, interrupting my musings. The noise must have been deliberate. The woman could walk softly when she wanted to.

I did not look behind me. _Safer that way_. "Yes?" I asked smoothly, or tried to. My throat was dry. It made my voice rasp. "You had something to say, princess?"

She did. "You stopped," she said. She sounded annoyed. "Is something wrong?" Her words expressed concern, but her tone told me to stop dawdling.

_Snap my leash all you want, little one, _I thought._ You will not bring me to heel. _Out loud, I said, "Do you see those markings over the gate?" I gestured at them and went on without waiting for an answer. "These stones were once warded with spells of protection and preservation."

She was silent for a moment. "Were?" she asked. "The magic is gone?

"Gone or close to it, or else these walls would have fewer holes in them."

She went silent again. Thinking, perhaps. Or brooding. "How are they guarded?" she asked eventually.

I looked at the walls of Zhentarim-held Orolin, squinting once more. Figures moved among the ramparts. I saw flashes of metal on some. "Archers, with crossbows," I said. In this damnable light I could not be certain, only guess, but it was a reasonable guess. Crossbows were quicker than bows and had a shallower learning curve. If you wanted to arm a few hundred human mercenaries and have them capable of doing anything shooting anything but their own feet in a reasonable time frame, you were better off giving them crossbows. "And mages," I added. There were other figures there, robed and hooded. "Perhaps some priests."

Her voice was surprised. "You can see that from here?"

"No, I was just guessing," I snapped. "As a matter of fact, Xanos can hardly see his own hand in front of his face unless he sets it on fire first." I waved my hands in front of my face like a man groping for a candle in the dark. "Is there a city here? Where am I? Who is speaking? Mother, is that you?"

I did not need to look behind me. I could almost _hear_ her eyes rolling. "There is no need for sarcasm," she said reprovingly.

"That is where you are wrong, princess. There is _always _need for sarcasm."

She ignored that. "Fine. So what do we do, once we are past the gates?"

"I intend to find where this Overseer Undissa and ask him very nicely to show me his ledger."

"_Ask_ him?" From her tone, I had succeeded in shocking her.

"Yes," I returned scathingly. "How else did you intend to get the information out of him?"

"I did not think we would ask. I thought we would..." she trailed off.

I thought I could see where this was going. "Hold a knife to his throat?" I finished brightly.

Her answer was grudging. "It is better than he deserves. Besides, what if he finds out about us? It is risky to leave him alive."

"Perhaps, but if he has any reason to believe that you will inevitably kill him once you are done with him, he will have no incentive to cooperate."

"I did not intend to warn him."

"Ah? And here I thought the Bedine were a polite people."

"Yes. So?"

"So one might suggest that killing a man without warning is the very definition of impolite."

"I can be impolite when the situation calls for it, mage."

"I know. I still have the bruises."

Brown cleared his throat. "I agree with Xanos. I think we should try talking to him first," he interrupted. His voice was weak. "I say, all this talk of swords and…and _interrogation…_it's just…just _bullying_, that's what it is. I'm sorry, Nadiya, but really…"

I snorted. "You, boy, will do no talking. You will be silent and follow my lead, or I will tie a bow around your neck and give you to the Zhentarim in exchange for their cooperation. I am sure they will be very forthcoming." Abruptly, I turned my head to look at him directly. "What I am not sure of is why," I added thoughtfully. "You seem to think that they would value you highly. Why is that? Hmm?"

The boy's face froze. "I will not go to them," he said. A slight quaver struck his voice. "I'd rather die. I would. You don't understand-"

"Oh? Do tell. Why will Xanos not understand? Do I seem stupid to you? Is that it? Am I just another knuckle-dragging, suet-for-brains half-orc to you, boy?"

Nadiya broke in. "Enough," she said exasperatedly. "Enough. This wrangling serves no purpose. We have a common enemy. We will focus on that enemy, not each other."

I felt a tightness in my temples. I could not tell if it was the geas or incipient heatstroke. "_Now_ she decides to be reasonable?" I muttered.

She sniffed. "I am always reasonable."

"Says the woman who wanted to storm the gates of a Zhent stronghold armed with nothing but her great-great-grandfather's ceremonial toothpick."

Her tone was outraged. "I did not."

"Right. You were planning to use Xanos to soften them up, first. Did you plan to let me attack, or were you thinking of something more along the lines of launching me from a catapult and finding out what airspeeds a half-orc needs to reach before he can take down a fortress wall?"

"I was not-"

"And that is not even mentioning your unreasoning hatred for all things asabi. I do not know why. They kill quite a lot of Bedine, I understand - but then, so do the Bedine."

She spluttered. "I did not say that I hated-"

"You did not need to. Your face is an open book. Mind you, 'tis a short book with very simple words-"

Her fist balled. "Why, you-"

Brown cleared his throat. "Um," he said. "Excuse me, but…the gates? What about the gates? Only I think they might be watching us…"

I blinked. Then I shrugged. "Let them watch," I said. "We are no threat, and they know it." Gods, how I hated to say it, but why deny the truth? The Zhentarim here had me out-numbered roughly a thousand to one, if rumor was correct. I would need to fire off a hundred lucky shots to kill them all. They would only need one lucky shot to kill me.

I heard leather creak as the princess shifted. "You said that this asabi would be guarded," she said. She did not let go of an idea easily, it seemed. "How will you reach him?"

"Simple. I will ask to see him. He is a trader. He will not refuse to speak to a paying customer." I glanced sideways at her expression and snorted. "Do not worry, princess," I added drily. "I have no intention of making any purchases today." I already had more company than I cared to have. No need to burden myself with more.

She seemed to accept that. "Very well." A challenge was in her voice. "Then what?"

"Then?" I dusted some sand from my sleeves. It was a futile endeavour, but a man had to have _some_ self-respect, even in this wretched wasteland. "Then this Undissa and I will talk, like civilized men."

"And if he will not talk?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Ah, well," I murmured. "In _that_ case you may feel free to murder him."

Brown's fretful murmur had a note of hand-wringing in it. "Oh, dear."

From the sound of _her _voice, she seemed to have taken my words at face value and found them acceptable. "Agreed," she said, sounding satisfied. I heard her stand. "We should get in as quickly as possible, and out of this sun. Noon will come quickly, when it comes."

I hated it when she spoke sense. It left me without anything satisfying to say.

Wordlessly, I led the way on. The other two followed quietly. I had no doubt that they would follow. They both wanted something out of me, and had no choice but to follow to make sure they would get it. In that, at least, they had as little choice as I.

Above the gateway, wings flapped heavily, black and shrouding. _Vultures._ They were feeding on a few tarred heads that had been mounted above the arch. Presumably those had once been enemies of the Zhentarim. Now, they were decorative accessories, because after all a row of severed heads did give a city such a _festive _look.

Before I reached the gate, a pair of guards stepped out, spears crossed. The spears were not aimed directly at me and did not present an immediate threat, but they certainly suggested that it would be wise of me to stop before the threat became more…pressing.

I stopped. My first priority was to get past those walls, not to make a, ha-ha, point. Besides, those guards looked sufficiently miserable to satisfy any vengeful inclinations I might have had. They were sweating so profusely in their pretty metal trappings that they seemed to be melting. If they knew what I could do to that metal, they would do more than sweat. They would probably strip it off and run screaming into the desert. It was strange what an innocent discussion about the boiling point of steel could do to some men's nerves.

A very short man with a very large clip-board ducked out from beneath the spears and bustled up to me, cutting my musings short. He had the put-upon air of a man who had better things to do, or at least who believed very firmly that he did. "State your business," he said, his voice bristling with impatience.

_Sedition. Theft. Arson. _I smiled, showing my teeth. "Trade," I said pleasantly.

The man nodded and made a check-mark on the piece of parchment which he had clipped to his little wooden board. "Buying or selling?" he asked.

"Buying."

The man made another mark. "Very well," he said. "The next auction is in two days. The slave pens are available for viewing at any time. For a full inventory or a special showing, Overseer Undissa is available on appointment-"

"And when does Overseer Undissa take appointments?" I interrupted.

The man blinked. "I am not authorized to say," he said shortly. "You will have to speak with his factor."

Whose location the little man was not authorized to give me, I presumed. So much authorization was failing to be given in this place that it made one wonder how the Zhentarim got anything done. "And where may I find this factor?" I asked sweetly.

The man frowned in irritation. "Of course I am not authorized to divulge his current whereabouts," he said impatiently, "But of course I will send him a message expressing your interest in meeting." He made a note. "You will be contacted once within the city, if that is your wish."

_Oh, joyous day. Just what I've always wanted. A Zhentarim spy lodged up my arse._ "It is," I said. What else could I say? A 'no' would have aroused suspicion quicker than a fireball to the face, and I wanted past those gates. The ancient city of Orolin was behind them. Oh, and answers, too, but mostly Orolin, and if I had come this far I would be damned if I did not at least get to see it.

"Very well." Below me, the man made another note. Then he glanced briefly at something just behind my left shoulder. "Now. I will have to authorize your slaves for entry," he added, and gestured with his quill. "This one's function is…?"

I glanced over my left shoulder. Brown tried a smile. It only lasted a moment, after which it oozed from his face like a dead pigeon sliding down an unexpected windowpane. "My scribe," I said.

The man wrote that down. "Age?"

What a bizarre question. "Why do you need to know his age?" Unless the man happened to enjoy young boys. From the looks of him, that might have been the case. There was a certain greasiness about him that made me reluctant to touch him without heavy gloves and perhaps a set of long-handled tongs.

"We record the age, race, and gender of all slaves who enter here." The man simpered briefly. "It allows us to gain an overview of market conditions and current demand, as well as the…durability of the stock. We are sure you understand."

I had grave doubts about Brown's durability, myself. "I see," I said, and shrugged. "Fifteen, then." I had my doubts on that score, but of all the mysteries I had to solve, Brown's exact age seemed the least urgent.

"Very good. And the other?"

I did not look back. _Safer that way_. "My guard. Age eighteen."

The man looked over the edge of his clip-board at something behind me. He blinked. "I see," he said carefully. Wisely, he said no more than that. If he had, I thought I would have plastered his brains all over that wall behind him, crossbowmen or no crossbowmen. He made another note. "Very well," he said then, his voice brisk. "Before you sign the entry form, I must inform you that we have certain rules here in our city. I am required to read them to you." He cleared his throat again and raised his clipboard. "May I?"

_That depends_, I thought brightly. _May I set your clipboard on fire? _"Do go on," I gushed.

In addition to his self-importance, the man also appeared to have an absolute immunity to sarcasm. "Excellent," he beamed. Then he cleared his throat and launched into speech. "Now, then. Once admitted into the confines of Orofin, you will be permitted a three-day stay to conduct your business," he informed me. "You will be monitored to ensure your cooperation. In the event of need, you may request an extension of your stay for an additional three days. You will be notified within one to ten days whether the extension has been granted. If the extension is not granted by the end of your stay, we require that you vacate the premises immediately. If extension is granted after the end of your initial stay, it will be renewed retroactively. If it is granted more than three days after the end of your last visiting period, you must request an additional extension. Your whereabouts while in the city, of course, will be recorded by our personnel. Your whereabouts while in the city will _not_ be revealed to third parties, with the exception of parties who may be interested in your whereabouts in the event of a breach of contract which includes but is not limited to: a failure on your part to request an extension of stay within the aforementioned time frame; involvement in any disruption of the peace while within the city; or engagement in any other unsanctioned activities, which include but are not limited to: theft; arson; riot; attempts to incite a riot; trespassing; loitering; assault on Zhentarim officials; assault on other guests; assault on the slaves of the above named; unsanctioned interaction with the slaves; tampering with the slaves; unlicensed inspection of the slave pens; murder; attempted murder; or espionage on behalf of any entity not currently affiliated with the Zhentarim Consortium. A full list of unsanctioned activities may be found posted at your place of lodging. We recommend a full review at your earliest convenience. In the unlikely event that any of the above may occur, we retain the right to retrieve any and all of your effects and/or belongings at the conclusion of any prosecutorial procedures, which may include but are not limited to: imprisonment; flaying of the lower extremities; flaying of the upper extremities; death by hanging; death by drawing; death by quartering; death by drawing _and_ quartering; death by hot poker, site of application to be determined according to subsection B of article twenty-three-point-oh-one of the Orofin urban penal code; sale of the convict's property, including all chattel, to recover damages, unless the assessed damages to Zhentarim property exceed the assessed value of the convict's property, in which case the convict may also be sold; if the value of the convict and the convict's property is less than the assessed damages, the convict will serve as an indentured slave to the city of Orofin for a period of time to be determined by the Orofin penal code section ten article fifty-two clause two point oh-"

I stared at him. I should have been angry. Furious, really. I was not. I was awestruck. The man had no apparent need to breathe. I had never observed such a talent in a human before. Perhaps he was some new variety of golem. Was there such a thing as a dullness golem, made of paste and paper cuts and drudgery?

_So much for my hopes of finding a bored civil servant. _This one seemed almost maniacally devoted to his job. He was not just a cog in a machine – he was_ happy_ being a cog. If I were him, I would cut my own throat. Hells, just listening to him was making me want to kill myself. Or him. Preferably him.

Eventually, the man wound down. He looked up at me and blinked, as if he had forgotten that I was even there. Then he cleared his throat. "Ah. So. Do you understand the terms of entry?"

I teetered on the verge of saying, 'No. Could you repeat that?' I wrested back control of my tongue just in time. It might have been amusing to see if he would, in fact, repeat that, but the amusement would only last through the first sub-clause, after which I would regrettably be forced to yank his tongue out through his neck in order to preserve what was left of my sanity. "Perfectly," I said.

The little otyugh kisser smiled thinly in satisfaction. "Excellent," he said. Then he reversed his clip-board and held both it and his quill out to me. "Sign here, please," he said pleasantly.

_Nazog Elfkicker. _I signed with a flourish and returned the man's quill to him. He took quill and papers both, glanced at them briefly, and then waved me on without another word.

It all seemed too easy. At least, it seemed too easy until I counted the archers on the walls and the mages close behind them.

I was not without my tricks. The iron ring on my right hand would offer some shielding from arrows. The scarab I had taken from the lich's corpse would provide some warding against spells. They would give me time to launch a strong offensive, but my tricks would not defend me forever. And while it was true that the ring on the third finger of my left hand - a heavy gold ring, the snarling cat's head on it still clearly defined despite having passed centuries buried in the ruins of Undrentide - might have enough of a charge left to heal even a grave wound if it came down to that, I was not entirely certain that it still worked. I had not been willing to risk using up its magic only to test it, and I did not think this was the time to gamble. There was too little to be gained and too much to lose.

So, yes. Entrance into Orofin had been easy.

Survival and escape, however, did not promise to be quite so simple.

I passed beneath the arch and its too-brief shade to emerge, blinking, into the sunlight on the other side of the wall, where the roadway become a wide, dusty boulevard.

My first view of Orolin, I saw, had been far too accurate. Time had not been kind to the city.

Drifts of sand gathered in the corners of ruined halls. Buttresses arched out over nothing, supporting nothing, anchored to walls that were crumbling to nothing. Broken columns stood next to archways which led from nowhere to nowhere. Slender spires rose halfway to the sky, their tips snapped like broken spears. Glassless empty windows stared out onto a dusty, barren boulevard, lined with weeds where once it had been lined with trees.

Orolin was a shell of a city, a reminder of greatness so far fallen that it would have been kinder to forget it had ever existed.

The street was nearly empty. Armed men were gathered here and there. Some were uniformed, the purple lightning-slash 'Z' on the breasts of their uniforms marking them as official Zhentarim guardsmen. Others were not so uniformed, marking them as either mercenaries, adventurers, or unofficial guardsmen. Some went about their business. Others loitered in the sparse shade. Many turned to watch me. A few looked behind me. I wondered which were merely gawkers and which were spies – not that it mattered. A gawker could become an informant easily enough. All it took was sufficient incentive.

Further along, a column of slaves stumbled along the roadside, tethered to one another by a length of jingling chain. Some bore lash marks on their backs. Others left bloody footprints in the sand. None looked up. No doubt the curiosity had been beaten out of them.

On the other side, a lady mage swept by, golden-haired and robed in clinging emerald silk with long, dagged sleeves that trailed in the dust behind her. Despite the aura of power that distorted the air around her to any magically-attuned eye, she had a fine set of jeweled daggers at her belt – though the daggers, I could not help but notice, were only a subset of the things she had a fine set of.

_Yes_, _and if you do not stop looking, she will demonstrate her power by turning your eyeballs inside out, _the sensible side of my brain pointed out. _Come on, man. Show a little self-control._

I pulled my eyes away. They fell on a black-robed Banite. Having my eyeballs turned inside out might have been more enjoyable. The priest was bald, scrawny, pale as a slug, and had bags under his eyes so deep and dark that they were practically suitcases. He shuffled slowly down the exact center of the road, muttering something which sounded like a prayer. From what I knew of Banite rituals, it was probably the prelude to someone else's excruciating death.

A hushed voice came from somewhere near my left elbow. "What _is_ this place?" Nadiya whispered.

I did not look back. _Safer that way._ "A graveyard," I replied. _Ours, if we are not careful._

As the road narrowed, a few squat, modern sandstone buildings began to sprout among the ruins. They were flat-roofed, narrow-windowed, and most had only one floor. Curtains hung in the doorways, fluttering now and then in gusts of wind like blasts from an open furnace. Faces peered out occasionally, and voices murmured. People lived here, then, though they seemed few. Perhaps only slaves and madmen came to Orolin. I wondered which I was.

I walked on, my face bland, my mind feverish. I could not rest my eyes too long on any one thing, and I could not afford to miss a detail. Trying to observe everything without being observed observing…it was fortunate that the sun was so high. It explained away the sweat.

Not long after, the road met a dead end at a canal. To the right it led into a broad plaza, dotted with the remainders of ancient mosaics. The Netherese architecture in the plaza was readily identifiable – no one else designed buildings with such geometrically precise lines and wondrously impractical shapes.

An upside-down pyramid lay fallen on its side. From the looks of it, it had once balanced on its point, but as soon as the spells which had sustained its impossible pose had expended themselves, it had given into the more mundane laws of nature and fallen over.

Another structure, a twisted rhomboid, had once been sheathed in glass, but most of the glass had shattered or fallen, leaving behind a defleshed skeleton of metal and stone.

I scanned the streets. There were no visible guardsmen, or at least no guardsman that were visibly guardsmen, which meant either nothing or everything.

I sniffed the air. There was a stink on the air. It smelled like a kennel.

Leather creaked near my elbow. I did not look down. _Safer that way._ "What is it?" Nadiya whispered.

No one was visible. That did not mean we were not being watched, but I deemed it safe to pause for a few moments. I was at a crossroads. A convincing argument could be made that I was simply trying to decide which fork to take. "I smell slave pens," I said softly.

She made a startled noise. "Where?"

I inhaled again, lips parted enough to take the scent in through mouth as well as nose. It left me with the nagging feeling that I'd just stuck my nose up an otyugh's arse, but it also allowed me to pinpoint the smell's origin a little better. "To the right."

She hesitated. "Will they permit us to-"

I blinked. "_Permit_?" I repeated. "Bugger that," I added vehemently, and turned right.

I began to count my steps. _Seventeen…eighteen…_

At the twentieth step, I heard a commotion. Men and women, all of them cloaked in black and armored in ring mail, melted out from a narrow doorway in a squat, unremarkable building.

_That was commendably quick. _Since there seemed to be no immediate threat, I slowed and waited to see what would happen next.

"Hold!" someone barked. The guard in the lead stepped in front of me, his hand out. He had a pin stuck through the neck of his cloak, an agate shield with an enameled purple lightning bolt slanting across its face. Everything else looked standard-issue, making that badge the only detail about his garb to differentiate him from a common mercenary – though some of the people behind him had no such insignia. The patrol seemed to be an even mix of official Zhentarim guardsmen and hired muscle. No collars were visible, which ruled out slaves.

_Interesting. Very interesting. _Either the Zhents here were less paranoid than elsewhere, or they were more worried about keeping the other denizens of Orofin outside their walls than they were about keeping their secrets within them. There were things in the rest of the ruins that would make anyone nervous, that much I knew.

I stopped obediently. The lead guardsman examined me curiously. I hoped he had found something interesting to look at. Xanos hated to disappoint. "What is your business here?" he demanded, without preamble. No honorific "Magister" or "m'lord" there, not even a grudging one. He obviously thought that the mage's robes were some strange practical joke, or possibly just stolen, though the gods only knew whom I could have stolen them from. There were very few sorcerers my size in the world, and even fewer mages.

Well, if the man thought I was only a fool playing dress-up, I would give him a fool. Far be it from me to disappoint.

I let my expression go blank. A little more slack-jawed…_there. Perfect. _"Business?" I echoed as if I had no idea what that word might signify. "What business?" I scratched my head. "Nazog just here for the girls."

The guard studied me again. His stance relaxed slightly. He lowered his hand. "If you are looking for the inns, the visitor's quarter is that way. You must take the road behind you." he said carefully, and pointed back over my shoulder. "Where is your master? Are you here alone?"

_Master. _Because of course what a half-orc needed to succeed in this world, more than anything, was a human minder. "The visi-" I broke off. The heel of my right hand hit my forehead. "Of course! How silly of me. Nazog must have taken a wrong turn somewhere." I leaned forward and spoke in a loud whisper. "Happens all the time. Too many streets. Where I grew up, we only had one." I scratched my head again. "Or was it two? Nazog always loses count. What quarter you say this was?"

The man seemed to answer automatically, as if too surprised by my sudden question to question it. "Administrative quarter," he said shortly. Then he blinked, as if realizing what he had just said.

_Well, that would explain the smell. _I smacked my forehead again. "Oh! Right, right." I grinned and let my hand fall heavily on his shoulder. "Thank you. Sorry to bother you. Nazog will go now." I half-turned, my hand engulfing the man's shoulder so firmly that I accidentally dragged him around with me. I paused. "Uh-"

The guard stepped away, jerking his cloak straight and giving me the impatient, dismissive scowl of a man who felt that he was not paid nearly well enough to deal with the likes of Nazog. "That way," he said, speaking slowly and firmly. "Straight ahead, then right at the last bridge. Understood?"

"Oh! Oh, right." I waved, but the patrol leader was already turning away, clearly in a hurry do distance himself from poor, stupid Nazog. "Thank you," I called after their backs. After all, I _had_ been told that I should strive to be more polite.

They did not answer. _Rude people, these Zhentarim. Barely a thought to spare for poor Nazog. _Well, that was all to the good. The less they thought of me, the better. That way the captain would not think of me when he found his badge missing.

Brown crept up to my elbow. "What was _that_?" he hissed.

Metal bit into the palm of my hand. I allowed it to slide from my hand into a pocket sewn into my robes at hand height. "Informative," I answered distantly, lost in thought. I shook myself. "Well, come along, slave," I said, more briskly. "You heard the man. We have an inn to find."

The visitors' quarter was not so much a quarter as a portion of a street which butted against the junction of two empty canals to the north and west – effectively, I could not help but notice, cutting off two potential avenues of escape.

All of the inns and taverns were sprawling, white-washed buildings with single floors and high, small windows. The only things to differentiate them were the details – the signs, the sounds, the clientele.

The sounds emanating from _The Singing Harpy_ implied that there was a little too much truth to the name, and that the owner might have been wise to invest in either a new name or a new bard. Just outside the door, a man vomited into a water barrel, effectively curing me of any appetite that the smell of the slave pens might have left me.

_The Bedine's Head _did indeed have a be-turbaned head hanging from a hook over the door, though it was so heavily tarred and decayed that it was as likely to be elven as it was to be Bedine. _The Brass Cauldron, _a dull name by any standard and not, it seemed, very lively, was followed by _The Insatiable Badger, _which was not a dull name at all. In fact, from the looks of the lovely and very lightly-dressed ladies hanging over the balconies, its name meant exactly what it seemed to mean. I could not help but notice that one of the ladies appeared to have forgotten the belt to her robe. It flapped open in the occasional breeze.

Eventually, I stopped in front of _The Medusa's Head. _I grinned up at the sign grimly. A painting of a medusa's head, dead and bloodied, stared out at the world through eyes of flaking yellow paint.

_How fitting, _I thought, and stepped inside.

The air inside the inn was heavy with smoke – both pipe smoke, cloyingly sweet, and opium, tart-sweet and pungent. Oil lamps in wrought iron and colored glass lit the dim interior. The walls were whitewashed, the rafters high and dark. The windows, high up on the walls, cast a feeble light, barely piercing the haze of smoke.

Tables lined the walls, leaving a clear central path. Men were sitting at them – many cloaked and hooded, some few armed and armored, though most of the armor was leather, not steel. Some of the hooded figures were more slight-shouldered, and might have been women. Most of those sat alone, their backs to the wall and their eyes watchful. Those who sat in groups sat speaking quietly over glasses of wine or liquor or the occasional a golden goblet of mead. At one or two tables, dice rattled.

Along the walls, coals burned on wide, shallow hearths. In the far corner, across from the bar and at the mouth of an arched hallway which appeared to lead towards the inn's chambers, a woman picked a complicated tune on an _oud_. She did not sing. This did not seem a place for singing. It seemed to be more of a place where words were exchanged, in a quiet sort of way, and on their heels would follow equally quiet sums of money. Or favors. There would be no brawls here – just a discreet drop of poison in the Evermead.

Heads turned as we entered. Some of the stares fell on me – but not all. That was unusual, but not entirely unexpected.

I did not turn around. _Safer that way._

It had all made perfect sense at the time. Her Royal Murderousness was too noticeable, too _Bedine _to walk into a Zhentarim camp without a few…modifications.

Her looks were not, strictly speaking, a problem. Her brown skin and heavy eyebrows and that beaky Bedine nose were dead giveaways as to her heritage, but she could easily have been just another one of the many Bedine outcasts and mercenaries scattered throughout the Anauroch.

No, the real problem was that billowing black robe, which had marked her as a proud daughter of the Bedine, one who would rather skewer any Zhentarim she saw rather speak to him.

Clothes, however, were easy to change, and men's assumptions changed with them. If I placed her face above homespun linen and mismatched leather, I had been confident that it would not earn a first look, much less a second.

Had I known what would happen, I might have tried a different tactic.

I might have sewed holy symbols into her robes, strapped an eyepatch on her, and tried to pass her off as a Stormlord of Talos. Gods knew she had the temper for it.

Failing that, I might have painted her orange, fixed her robe to make it look as if it had been scavenged from a corpse, and called her a goblin. Gods knew she had the height for it.

_Anything_ would have been better than this.

_Ah, but there is an advantage_, provided some dour inner voice. _No man who catches a glimpse of her below the neck will ever remember her face. _

I stifled the voice firmly. Then I shoved it down into the very depths of my psyche, dropped the trapdoor, barred it with iron, and jumped up and down on it a few times for good measure. It was either that or weep. Or scream.

What in the name of the Abyss had happened? Where had she been hiding…_that_?

_Under her robe, you slavering buffoon._

Ah, yes. _The robe_. That featureless swathe of black fabric had hidden the woman better than a spell of invisibility.

I should have let her keep the bloody thing on.

A bearded, balding man – a merchant, judging by his silk shirtsleeves and the golden chain slung across his chest – was seated alone by the fireplace. He looked up from his wine as I passed. His bleary eyes squinted at something behind me. Then they moved downward. Then they widened. "Now _that's_ a fine pair o-" he began to exclaim.

My fingers twitched, almost of their own volition.

Heads turned as the man suddenly began to scream. His hands beat frantically at his beard. Smoke rose.

For some reason, the man seemed disinclined to finish his observation. Presumably the little flames currently shooting out of his face had stolen the words right out of his mouth.

I stopped. I did not know what had made me do what I had just done. Worse, I suspected that I was about to keep doing it, self-control and prudence be damned. I was too hot, too sun-burned, too put-upon, and too bone weary to stop myself. No doubt I would pay for it later. I usually did. "Scribe," I said, without turning around.

Brown answered promptly. "Yes, Master?"

Perhaps he was not as stupid as he looked. "Speak to the innkeeper," I ordered, and pointed at the bar. "There. Tell him that we will need a room." I thought for a moment. "Make that a suite." I thought again, this time about the prospect of letting the boy loose to flap his lips. "You, guard - go with him." She would hopefully be able to shove her fist down his throat if he seemed on the verge of saying anything egregiously stupid.

Once they had obliged and moved out of hearing, I slid onto the bench next to the bearded man and smiled, coasting on the wings of fury. "Good morning," I said cheerfully. "Is this seat taken?" There was another chair at the table. I leaned back and kicked the chair over. "Never mind," I said. "It is now."

The man blinked at me. His mouth opened and closed a few times. He seemed discombobulated.

Before the man had had a chance to re-combobulate himself, I leaned over, bracing my forearm against the wall behind his head. This left him with no way to flee except over the crackling hearth behind him. I wished him luck, but I would not have tried leaping the fire if I were him. That beard looked very flammable. "I could not help but notice that you are in some distress," I went on. I tsk'ed sympathetically. "Such a terrible accident. These old fireplaces are so unpredictable. Here, allow me to help." I picked up his half-empty glass of wine and threw the contents of the glass in his face. Then I put the glass back down on the table. "There," I said happily. "That seems to have gotten the last of it." Reaching over, I picked up the square of white cloth the glass had been resting on, and held the cloth out to him helpfully. "Napkin?"

The man accepted the napkin automatically and mopped his face with it, his movements sluggish with bewilderment. His panic faded, but he seemed to be having some trouble making sense of recent events. "Who-"

I cut in before he could finish the question. "-am I?" I supplied helpfully. "My name is Nazog. Pleased to meet you. And you are?"

"What-"

I interrupted genially. "Your name is What? An unusual name. Or is that just what your mother said the first time she beheld you? Please clarify. Nazog is easily confused."

Even through the haze of alcohol, the man was not quite enough of a nitwit to accept this without question. "Excuse me," he said stiffly. He leaned away. "I do not know you, friend. If you would kindly-"

I interrupted again. "-stay to make your acquaintance? Gladly. My name is Nazog, but of course I already told you that. Perhaps you were not listening." I braced my free hand on the table in front of him and leaned closer. Judging by his breath, that glass of wine had not been his first. Good. A drunk opponent was a slow opponent. "Or perhaps you were too busy paying attention to other things?"

His face froze with suspicion. "I…do not know what you mean," he said.

"Oh, I think that you do." I pointed at the princess, standing uncomfortably at Brown's elbow. Her hand was still on her sword hilt. I hoped she could restrain herself from beheading anyone. I was getting us in enough trouble already. "Do you see that woman over there?"

He looked up quickly, then away guiltily. "I…I do not see-"

"Oh, but I think that you do. What's more, I would wager that you would like to know more about her, eh? No lying, now. Nazog can smell a lie. He has a very sharp nose. I just filed it this morning, in fact. Well? Speak up, man. Would you like to know more?"

The man's eyes darted, possibly searching for an escape route, but short of climbing onto the hearth or diving under the table, he was effectively cornered. To his credit, he seemed to sense the trap, but after a moment, he seemed to resign himself to playing along, or at least pretending to until such time as I lost interest and left him be. "Yes?" he ventured uncertainly.

I grinned. "Excellent!" I said heartily. "Today is your lucky day. As it happens, I know her well. She is my slave. My body guard, to be exact. Strange, I know, but I find that despite her size she has certain…instincts. Would you like to hear of them?" Without waiting for his response, I went on. To the hells with self-restraint – this was too much fun. Besides, the man needed to learn a lesson. It was for his own good. If he did not learn to keep his eyes to himself, someone might rip them out. "She once killed a man by breaking both arms and both legs, staking him out in the desert, and stuffing his mouth full of carrion. The vultures came and ate his tongue, no doubt mistaking it for just another piece of meat. Then they ate the rest of him. I understand that it took him quite some time to die."

The man swallowed. "It…did?" he said weakly.

"Oh, yes. As it turns out, he was rude to her. It turns out that she quite cherishes civility, despite her savage exterior."

My victim's face took on the horrified inward stare of a man who had missed putting his foot in a cobra's nest by a hair's width, and who was just coming to realize this. "She does?" he croaked.

"Oh, yes." I sighed, raising my hands helplessly. "I know, I know, I should not indulge her…but a happy slave is an effective slave, I always say, and I have always believed in cultivating talent wherever it may be found. And she has _quite _a talent for murder. She killed her former master as well, you know. It turns out that some fool had sold her as a concubine after she was banished from her tribe and captured by slavers. Her new master made to use her as such. She found that quite impolite of him. Quite impolite indeed."

Words seemed to fail him. "Er-"

"They say that they found one of his balls up a tree and the other being fought over by a pack of hyenas some six miles distant."

"I-"

"Oh, I do not believe it myself."

"Oh, goo-"

"No, one human gonad can feed two hyenas, at most. Perhaps three, if they have eaten very recently. Certainly not a full pack."

"It-"

"Of course, if he were lucky enough to be a half-orc, he might have fed a zoo. Ha-ha! Sorry, that was just Nazog's little joke."

The man swayed slightly. "How-"

"-do I know all of this?" I interrupted helpfully. "Oh, the whole sordid story came out when she went on the block. Full disclosure. Buyer beware. Of course, that was some time later. She was not captured immediately after she killed her first buyer, you understand. Remained at large for almost a year. Seems that some poor traveler she met was rude to her, so she laid a curse on him. Black magic. Very dire. The poor bastard was obliged to serve her a year and a day. Kill her enemies. Guide her steps. Catch her arrows. Wipe the dribble from her chin. Tie her shoelaces. That sort of thing."

He seemed to make a grab for the nearest word. "What-"

I interrupted again. "-what happened?" I finished for him. "Oh, they were captured together, in the end. He was utterly mad by then, of course. Gibbering. A ruined shell of a man. An otyugh breeder bought him for feed."

"They di-"

"They say he was smiling as he went into the grinder."

"Why-"

"-am I telling you this?" I leaned back and shrugged, steepling my fingers in front of my chest. "Why not? We are friends, no? Friends often share tales over a bottle of good…what is that, anyway? It looks like honey, but it smells like cat piss. _Is_ it cat piss? Well, no matter. As a friend, I must offer a friendly warning. My slave has a unique talent for violence, but I have found her talent a two-edged sword. I must keep her with me at all times. If I do not keep her in sight and, gods forbid, some poor fool catches her alone and does something to offend her..." I trailed off with a regretful sigh. "Well, of course I would claim full responsibility for her actions," I added.

"You would?"

"Yes, of course. And I would compensate the poor bastard's family for the burial costs." I smiled. "Fortunately, those tend to be small. She leaves very little to bury when she gets angry."

The man seemed to have caught up to current events. His eyes narrowed. "You cannot threaten me," he said, his voice low. His eyes scanned the room in a furtive rush. "You are under surveillance."

I laughed. "Threaten?" I said. "Who said anything about threatening?" I spread my hands. "I am only offering advice. We are friends, are we not? This is what friends do for one another, is it not? Please advise. Nazog does not have many friends. Perhaps I have misunderstood how this works."

I noticed him inching towards the opposite edge of the bench. "If she does anything…" he began. Then he stopped, and swallowed. "She is your property," he said harshly. "You will be punished for…whatever she does."

"Oh, I will, I will," I agreed. "But – and this is a key point, so I would listen closely if I were you – but only _after she has done it._"

In the silence that followed, footsteps approached. They were light, hesitant, like those of a wild animal uncertain whether to bolt or to fight.

The bearded man, on the other hand, suffered from no such doubts.

He looked up. Blood drained from his face. Then, without further ado, he scrambled to his feet, overturning his empty wine glass, and shot over the hearth like an arrow from a bow.

_Impressive. _He was very sprightly for a man his age. No doubt terror had lent a new strength to his muscles.

I leaned back. Thoughtfully, I righted the wine glass. A few drops of wine clung to my fingers. I wiped them off on the napkin. I did not look up. _Safer that way._ "Is it done?" I asked.

"Yes." Her voice was hushed, as if she feared being overheard. Sensible of her. I had already made enough of a scene for ten Nadiyas. Then again, if my goal had been to divert attention from her, I had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. It was also very likely that I was a complete and utter fool. "Southwest corner, the…the man said. He gave me…here." I glimpsed her hand moving. An iron key was set down on the table near my elbow with a _plink_.

I stood up, pocketing the key. "Excellent," I said, and swept away before she could ask what I had just done. I did not particularly care to field such a question at that moment, not in the least because I was not entirely clear of the answer.

Brown was waiting at the far end of the common room. "Master," he murmured to his feet. He gestured. "This way."

With a curt nod, I turned to follow him.

A flicker of movement near the door at the very rear of the inn caught my eye. Prompted by some instinct, I turned my head to track it.

Softly, almost imperceptibly, the door handle, a tarnished brass lever, clicked back upwards, as if it had just been released.

Biting back a sigh, I went to my chambers.

One thing, at least, seemed clear:

I was going to have to ward the bloody door again.


	35. Chapter 35

Overseer Undissa's office was housed in the great, overturned pyramid in the administrative quarter of the city, where it overlooked the slave pens in all of their stink and misery.

The Zhentarim had had a stroke of ingenuity. The canals of Orofin were long since dry, and even had there been water enough in the whole of the Anauroch to fill them again, they were so rubble-choked that it would have taken years to clear them.

So they had not.

Instead, the Zhentarim had installed huge iron grates at regular intervals along the old canals, and turned the canals into slave kennels.

There was a certain black logic to it. The walls of the canals were high and concave, making them almost impossible to climb. Add two walls of black iron bars and no slave would leave his pen alive. He might climb, but even if a guard did not shoot him down, there was a shimmer in the air around those iron bars that boded poorly for any slave's survival. Every so often I thought I saw sparks coalesce on the metal. Touching that metal might very well be fatal, without the right protections.

Another nearby section of canal was still blocked with rubble. In it was a group of slaves in ankle chains. Humans and half-elves, mostly, with the occasional dwarf or halfling in the mix. No half-orcs, which struck me as strange, given the Zhentarim propensity for using us as beasts of burden. Under the watchful eye of their overseer, the slaves were loading the rubble into baskets, which another group of slaves hauled up a wooden ramp to be, I imagined, disposed of wherever the Zhentarim needed to boost their fortifications. A bright note in a dark place, this – perhaps fewer buildings had been pulled down for that purpose than Xanos had thought.

My bootsoles crunched over scattered debris. What was left of the approach to the pyramid must have been very grand, once upon a time, though all that remained were a few crumbling stairs, the remnants of an intricate mosaic, and two lines of broken columns, many of them reduced to no more than bases.

I caught a glimpse of an exposed patch of mosaic, and knelt for a closer look. A not insignificant portion of the tiles were missing, but what could be seen of the pattern was geometric and highly stylized. _Late Netherese, then._ The further they had flown, the more abstract their art had grown. Drogan had shown me some engravings. In many cases, those engravings were all that was left. War, ruin, and other disasters had destroyed the originals.

Reaching out, I brushed away a few loose tiles. Dust turned my fingers gray. _There should be a stasis spell on this_, I thought. Even a fence and a piece of canvas would do. Hells, if they wanted, Xanos would personally lay on top of it until they found more permanent covering. Anything but this.

Heavy, shuffling feet approached. I looked up.

A line of men, yoked like oxen, was crossing the plaza. There were nine of them, all carrying baskets of rubble from the canal and to parts unknown. The baskets were far heavier than a normal man could carry, but then, these were not normal men.

They had a driver bringing up the rear, though his whip was at his hip, and his face was bored. Obedient slaves, these ones. No doubt they had done this many times before.

One of the slaves turned his head to look at me. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a soundless snarl. His teeth were cracked and yellow, and his upper lip was split where one of his lower incisors had sliced it open. This did not seem to diminish his hostility. If anything, it enhanced it.

I looked back, expressionless. _Fine_, I thought. _Be that way. See if I invite you to any of the family reunions._ Then again, if he came from anywhere in the North, we were unlikely to be related. Beyond the commonality of our race, anyway.

The line shuffled past. I watched it from the corner of my eye, forcing myself to be still and look calm, though my first impulse was to get as far from there as possible as quickly as possible, just in case someone decided that what the Black Network really needed was another half-orc slave.

Even so, I was aware of the sidelong glances. They ranged from disinterested to hostile. There were one or two muffled snarls. I did not take offense at that. Had I been in their places and seen some smug bastard like myself walking free while I was bent under the weight of my chains, I would have wanted to rip his face off, too.

The line shuffled past, jingling. The slave on the end looked at me. His eyes, a very human shade of brown, flicked down to the hem of my robe, then back up to my face. Ever so slightly, his eyebrow arched, and I saw something in his eyes that I had not seen in the others'. _Curiosity. _And perhaps a little amusement, in the flicker of a smile around his lips and the tiny nod he gave me.

I inclined my head just as slightly, studying him from beneath lowered lashes. The other man carried himself with a kind of massive, monolithic dignity that belied the collar around his neck. No, not belied – denied the existence of, as if to acknowledge its existence was beneath him. Perhaps it was. His face was lined, and his hair, as dark as mine, was turning gray at the temples. He was old - older than Xanos for a certainty, almost too old to be of use as a slave.

_He does not have much time left_, I thought grimly. He must have been close to forty. Were he a full-blooded human and not a slave to the Zhentarim, he might have had another thirty to forty years left until he died of old age. Because he was not, he would see perhaps another ten years. Twenty if he was lucky. We were half-orcs. We were not only obliged to work twice as hard as any human or orc to prove our worth to either society, but we were obliged to do it in less time. Or, in this one's case, in less time and with a collar around his neck.

I met the other man's eyes, so much like mine, and felt something like bile rise in my throat. Then I pulled my eyes away and stood, brushing dust from my hands.

_Sorry, brother_. There was nothing I could do. If I tried to free him, it was very possible that we would both end up dead or worse. I had not fought so long and hard for my survival only to throw it all away now.

The line passed, veering off towards the canals. I veered the other way, towards the old pyramid.

I passed the pyramid's point, walking along its near side. The point lay towards the pens, whereas its base – or what, I suppose, would have been its roof, had it still been standing the way its creators intended – lay on the far side, facing away from the pens at roughly a thirty-degree angle. The entrance was there, presumably because it was more feasible to carve quarters out of the broader end than to pack a few hundred Zhentarim into the pyramid's tip.

A guard was waiting at the entryway. He put out a hand as I approached. "Appointment?" he asked perfunctorily.

I gave him the piece of paper which had been so quietly slipped beneath my door before I came here. Little was on it, just a name and a time, but its meaning had been clear enough. _Undissa_, it said. _Two bells before sundown. _Nothing else, not even my name – the false, or the real. No directions, either. I had had to ask for them. I did not know what to make of that, except that I was obviously being watched, and quite probably being followed. I would have to take care what I did and make good use of Nadiya and Brown, who as ostensible slaves were more likely to be overlooked.

The man glanced over my paper, consulted his book, checked something off, nodded in satisfaction, and waved me in. "Last door at the end of the hall," he said. "Welcome. Please step in. The Overseer is expecting you."

I stepped in.

The halls were tall, narrow, and dark. Magelights glowed steadily in their niches on the walls. Their light was cool and white and sterile and very, very boring. I would have preferred a little color. Life was nothing without color.

My eyes adjusted to the dim light. My ears pricked. A breeze, slight but constant, whispered against my skin, speaking of other entrances and exits, of doorways and windows and tunnels.

I paused and lifted my chin, sniffing the air. It was dry, dusty, with a faint tinge of old sweat and older wood. Paper, too, and ink, and books bound in old leather. No metal to speak of. This was a place of scribes. I would have to worry about traps and spell triggers, then. Guards were a secondary concern.

The floor had a noticeable upward slant. Narrow openings scored the walls. The stone around them had been cut and smoothed, and intricate, hinged wooden screens installed. Voices came from behind some. From others, silence was all that sounded, occasionally punctuated by the quiet rustle of clothes and dry _scratch-scratch_ of quill against paper.

_So_, I thought. _Here I am, surrounded by the enemy. Xanos against the finest minds the world can offer. Mages to the right of me, murderers to the left._

I grinned through the gloom. I _wanted_ to laugh. To the Hells with why I was here in the first place, to the Hells with resentment over that little savage and her little geas - there was nothing in this world that made a man feel more alive than the possibility that he might very shortly not be.

I moved on, absorbing my surroundings with interest.

Two-thirds of the way down the hall, or thirty-eight paces from the entrance, another hall branched off and headed deeper into the pyramid's belly. It was lined with doorways, as well, and some distance in, a darker square of shadow in upper wall hinted at the presence of an air shaft.

The Netherese had built those air shafts into many of their pyramidal structures, to bring air and light into the heart where air and light might not otherwise reach. In all likelihood this place was honeycombed with them, though there was no way to know, short of exploring them from end to end, how many were still open all the way to the exterior. I did not think that they would be viable as escape or entry points. At least, they would not be viable for Xanos. It would need someone half my size, and even then it would be a tight squeeze.

The hall ended in a door, another twenty-six paces beyond the branching. The door was carved thickly with thistles and songbirds. Faintly, yellow lamplight shone through the cracks.

I knocked.

A high, sibilant voice responded. "Enter," it said pleasantly.

The room beyond was full of strange angles. The ceiling slanted towards the floor, there were far too many sides to the walls, and each wall met the floor at a different angle. The overall effect was like standing inside a polyhedron whose sides and their shapes and number had been chosen from a hat at random.

Unless I missed my guess, I was now in or near one of the pyramid's points, though there was little beyond the room's strange geometry to suggest it. There were no windows, either, not even a skylight, though the air seemed fresh enough. Perhaps there was some venting to the outside.

The floors were carpeted in layers of red. There was little furniture, but several chests and trunks of varying sizes. There were no mage lights, only oil lamps, which cast that yellow light I had seen through the door. I did not know why. Perhaps Undissa simply liked the color better, or perhaps he was no mage and did not trust them to enspell his quarters, no matter how minor the spell. The lamps gave off neither smoke nor smell, but there was nevertheless a pungent, tart-sweet fragrance in the air. Anyone who had spent any time in Ghufran's company would know that smell. _Opium. _An unusual indulgence for a lizard-man. His, or a guest's? Hard to tell by smell alone.

I stepped across the carpet that lay in front of the entrance. It was darkly patterned, red and black. Some darker blotches marred it.

I breathed in, tasting the air. Beneath the cloying smell of opium there was a coppery tang that lingered in the back of my mouth. Blood.

_Interesting. _Somebody here obviously needed either a new cleaning staff or less absorbent flooring.

A gaunt, red-robed asabi sat at the heavy desk in the center of the room, carefully making a notation in the margins of a small, leather-bound book as I approached. When I stopped before the desk, the asabi finished his notation with a final jab of his quill and looked up.

Needle-like teeth showed in a smile like that of a friendly shark. The asabi swept his little book shut and gestured with a black-nailed hand. "Sit, sit," he urged me amiably. "I am Undissa. Welcome to my tent – so to speak." His cadence was strange, sing-song and uneven, putting stresses on syllables where there should have been none and pausing when one least expected it. The overall effect there was unsettling, just like the oddly shaped walls, leaving one feeling vaguely off balance. I wondered if it was deliberate. Disconcerting your opponents was an effective tactic – in negotiation as well as battle.

The lizard went on. "Undissa is pleased to be of use to you, Magister…" He raised a paper on his desk, looking under it at another paper. He blinked. "…Elfkicker?"

"A family name," I lied blandly, stopping in front of the asabi's desk with a small bow. "I did not choose it, but I am obliged to keep it. You know how it is."

"Oh, yes."

"If I did not, my father would rip my ears off. You understand." Not that I had ever met him. Nor did I have any desire to – not unless it was to rip far more than his ears off. I did not like what he had done to my mother.

"Of course. I do understand." The lizard really was very good at keeping a straight face. He gestured again at the chair which stood in front of his desk, an oversized affair in giltwood and leather. His fingers were ink-stained. "Please, sit. May I get you anything?" He turned to a large sideboard behind his desk. Glass clinked. "Brandywine? Berduskan Dark? I have a very fine bottle of black icewine from Neverwinter. Quite refreshing. Or perhaps you might care for something more exotic? Some excellent cask-aged Pearl of the Moon recently came into my possession. Very smooth. A rare find, so far from Kara-Tur."

"The offer is kind," I said, taking the offered seat. "But I will have to decline." I settled back into the chair, the leather creaking under my weight. The chair was warm. Someone else had sat in it very recently. "I do not drink the stuff."

"You do not have the taste for it?"

"I have never acquired it," I said. Sorcery and alcohol were an explosive combination. I had tried it once. Once had been enough. "But I thank you for the offer." I glanced around. "My compliments on your quarters, by the way," I added. These empty niceties made me want to bite something, but if the game today was diplomacy, then I would don my polite mask and play along. "Quite luxurious," I went on admiringly. "Is this your permanent office?"

"It is. The previous overseer preferred to, ah, remove himself somewhat from the beating heart of our operations, but I prefer to stay where I can keep my finger on its pulse."

_And open its veins should the need arise, eh? _"A reasonable decision," I said.

"Why, thank you." The asabi curled his long, ink-stained fingers together, like a spider tucking its legs to its belly. "And your accommodations?" he asked solicitously. "Are they to your satisfaction? I have heard very good things about the Medusa's Head."

_So he knows where I am staying. _No surprise there. Our motley trio could not have hoped to go unnoticed for long, and Undissa was too high-ranking to be without his own network of sources.

I hoped that little savage was keeping her hand on her sword and both eyes peeled. As for Brown…well, she could probably use him as a human shield if it came down to that. Best use for him, really. "Adequate," I drawled out loud. "Though I was more impressed with the construction than the quarters. I have seldom seen thicker walls outside of a fortress." I arched one eyebrow. "Are you expecting a siege?"

That sharklike smile made another appearance. "We believe in preparedness," the asabi said smoothly. "And, as you know, much of this ruin is inhabited by some very hostile elements."

"Are those Talonites still presenting a problem? I had heard they were poisoning all of the wells they could find." I had Ghufran to thank for that tidbit of information. The woman knew everything about the Anauroch. I could only hope that she did not know everything about me.

"We have our own sources of water," the asabi demurred. "But the Talonites did test our defenses a time or two, I will admit. We are not, however, a city under siege, I assure you. You need not fear. Matters are well under control."

I may have been a stupid half-orc, but to me, a city that was stockpiling water and devoting entire platoons of slaves to wall-building was the definition of a city under siege, or at least of a city which expected to be under siege very soon. "There have been no more attacks, I gather?" I asked mildly. "Did they lose interest?"

"I think so, yes. It was shortly after our clerics turned their own ghouls on them. Now…well, let us say that they prefer to do their preaching from afar these days."

I gave a low, appreciative chuckle. "Effective."

"Self-defense, only. We are here to do business, after all, and we cannot do it if we must constantly contend with these Talonite distractions." The asabi unclasped his hands. "And speaking of business-"

My voice was bland. "Yes, speaking of."

"I assume that you would like to have a look at our current inventory?"

"If I may."

"You may, of course." He half-turned to the chest behind him. It was small, iron-bound, and dark. Zalantar, I thought. I would have liked something like that, and a study of my own to put it in. "Are you certain you would not like refreshments?" the asabi pressed solicitously. "Water, perhaps. You do not appear to be accustomed to this heat. So few are who come our way."

I shrugged. "One of the few failings of my blood," I said dismissively. I leaned back and steepled my fingers, watching him pull a small key on a chain from the neck of his robe and use it to unlock the chest. I wondered if he ever took that chain off. I would have liked to have a copy of that key. "Orcs are meant for high mountain caves," I continued neutrally. "Not deserts."

Softly, the asabi chuckled. "Ah, but _humans_ are quite adaptable," he observed before turning to dig through his chest. I noticed that he picked up his journal and put it away first. I would have paid good money to know what was in it.

I grinned humorlessly at the lizard's bony back. "So good of you to notice," I murmured. Not that it mattered – I was what I was, and I was not going to forswear fully half of myself because that half made some people uncomfortable – but my human blood was something that few people cared to consider. They usually focused on the orcish half and forgot all the rest. This lizard had not. That made him unusually observant. Good. I liked observant people. They were so much more fun to trick.

While Undissa's back was turned, I took the opportunity to make a few observations of my own.

The desk was neat, almost obsessively so. Papers were stacked in one corner, with a polished skydrop as a paperweight. The papers had been laid face-down, and the first sheet was blank, hiding the writing on the one underneath it. So he wanted those papers to be easily accessible to him, but not easily read by others. The information within them must therefore have been important to him, but it was not likely to be so sensitive that he could not afford to risk having it stolen.

I let my eyes drift over the rest of the desk, absorbing each detail as I came across it. A tooled leather desk blotter, orthogonally aligned with desk's far edge. A wooden scroll case – latticework, possibly pearwood - placed neatly at the blotter's head. A brass inkpot with a raven's feather quill occupied one corner. In the other corner, precisely mirroring the inkpot, was a small silver bell on an ebony stand.

I nearly laughed out loud at that silver bell. _So civilized, for a man with blood on his carpet._

There was also an empty glass on the desk, placed in the near right-hand corner. Not the asabi's – it was on the wrong side, too far out of his reach. His previous client's, then. Curious that he had not removed it. A thin film of some pale liquor still clung to the sides. It had not been there long enough to evaporate.

I shifted again, masking a slight inhale. Whatever the liquid in that glass might have been, one whiff of it burned my nostrils like only hard liquor could. Beyond that, I could not identify it.

I wished that bloody priestess were here. She would have known what that liquor was. She had been like a walking encyclopedia of advanced liver disease and its causes.

I added a few facts together.

The chair was still warm, there was a lingering smell of opium on the air which the lizard himself did not appear to be responsible for, and that glass had been drunk from not long ago – but not so long than Undissa had had the opportunity to remove it before I came in.

Someone had left this room very recently and in some haste, then. Who, and why? And why had Undissa not hidden that glass, if he did not want it seen? Or perhaps he did want it seen, or did not care either way. Perhaps his previous client did not concern me, and the glass meant nothing.

_Or perhaps he wanted me to see it, and wonder if there was any connection between whoever else has been following me and that empty glass._

It occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, I was being a bit too paranoid.

Then again, I _was_ among the Zhentarim. Among the Zhentarim, paranoia was not a disease. It was the cure. Premature death was the disease, and right at that moment I was having too much fun to die.

Undissa turned, a large wood-bound book in hand. It was a workhorse of a book, graceless but sturdy. "Here we are," he said cheerfully. He opened the book, smoothing its pages. His scales made a dusty scratching against the parchment. "Were you looking for something in particular?"

I spread my hands. "I am undecided," I said. I leaned forward. "Nothing too fragile, of course," I said thoughtfully. "It will be a long road to Blacksands. I cannot afford to lose stock along the way."

Undissa nodded. Pages whispered under his dry fingers, turning. "What has brought you to the Anauroch, if I may ask?"

"Ah, well, you see…I have been conducting my own study of Netherese art and architecture."

"My compliments. That sounds like quite a weighty subject."

"Yes. It can be quite crushing, at times. But we do what we must for the sake of knowledge."

"Well, my dear Magister, you have come to the right place if architecture is your field. We have a remark-able collection of al-most…fully intact structures."

"Oh, yes. I was astounded to see what you have done with the existing ruins."

Predator's teeth peeked slyly from lipless jaws. "Oh, I am glad," the asabi purred. He blinked once, snakelike. "Of course…you may apply for an official tour of some of our locations, if you wish. It will take some time to clear the appropriate authorities, but I will be glad to speak on your behalf."

I wondered if this tour would include a free dagger in the back, or if I would have to pay a surcharge for wear and tear on the steel. To refuse might arouse suspicion, however. I was best off playing along for the time being. I could always wiggle out of it later. "I think I may take you up on that offer," I said. "How long do you expect the process to take?"

"A day or two, no more."

"Excellent. I look forward to it."

The asabi smiled briefly. "We do aim to serve," he said smoothly. He looked back to his book. "Moving on, then…you will want something hardy, I expect." A page _*snick*_ed. "Dwarves? I recently received a shipment of dwarves. Explorers we found in Tethyamar. Some were sold to a buyer conducting an excavation near Bhaerlith. Would dwarves interest you?"

"Dwarves?" I thought of Drogan and snorted. "No. Too stubborn. I want to argue with my chattel about as much as I want to coddle it." I wondered what the old man would have had to say about that statement. Probably nothing good. Most likely he would have hit me with his cane. It seemed to be Xanos's fate, this sharing of company with people who could not seem to stop hitting him.

Undissa nodded in his sinuous, agreeable way. "Very sensible," he said. Again, he drew the first syllable out inordinately long, lingering on the final 's' before letting the rest of the word tumble out almost all at once. "Let us see, then…no, no, half-elves will not do. They are not well-adapted to this climate. They will require, as you say, coddling."

I thought of a line of slaves, and of an old, proud survivor living out his last years with a collar around his neck. "And half-orcs?" I asked. I smirked. "I assure you, we need no coddling."

"I would not dream of implying otherwise, Magister Elfkicker. However, what we have is not ready for the block."

"Ah." _Sorry, brother. _"A shame."

"Agreed. You are such a robust race – and such a sound investment. We seldom lose half-orc stock."

"A strangely flattering statement, all things considered."

Undissa grinned back. "All things considered, Magister, I would…not say such a thing too loud-ly."

I laughed out loud. "Why?" I asked bluntly. "Do you plan to flatter me by putting a collar around my neck?"

"Oh, no, nonono. You are our honored guest. We would not dream of doing such a thing while you visit our fair city."

I could not resist the temptation to tug the asabi's tail - metaphorically speaking. "And once I have left it?"

The lizard's scaly brow lifted. "We are not in the business of making enemies, Magister."

"And yet you are so _good _at it."

It was the asabi's turn to laugh, a noise as dry and rasping as a rattlesnake's tail. "You flatter us."

I gave him a short, seated bow. "I give you your due," I said pleasantly. _With any luck, you bastards will all get your due someday. _I straightened. "But enough with the chatting. Time is wasting, and the block will not wait for my bid. What else do you have?"

He glanced at another page, splaying his fingers across the crabbed writing. "We _do_ have some asabi," he said, and reversed the book, pushing it across the table to me. _Finally_. "Here. I assure you, our asabi are well-adapted to the desert, and are known for their obedience."

_Yes, but to whom?_ "Asabi?" I asked. My eyes fell on the page. I scanned it as if only marginally interested in its contents. No need to look hard. Drogan had taught me the way of it. Neat columns of text leapt out at me, lined up obediently on perfectly straight lines. Numbers and letters, strings of them, some clearly notating names and dates and quantities and others mere strings of gibberish, seemingly random…no matter. I absorbed them all. "Where are these asabi from?"

"They were acquired in a skirmish near Oreme. An opposing mage had hired them to raid one of our caravans." The shark's smile rose from the deep, sharp-edged. "He was…not successful."

The key was not to focus on the written word, but to absorb it without seeming to, to rest one's eyes on as if it were a painting and the brush strokes the lines of a face. "And the mage?"

"Was disposed of according to our regulations."

_Disposed of, eh?_ "I see." This was the way of mages, this soaking in of words without reading them. No mage was Xanos, but that did not mean that the dwarf had not taught me a mage's tricks. "Do those regulations involve the headsman's block, or the auctioneer's?"

"Never fear, Honored Magister. We do not, as a rule, market your kind."

_Ah. So you did kill him._ "How eminently reasonable of you."

"It is a decision made in reason, in fact. We simply find you much too difficult to control without neutralizing your talents, and – you will forgive me for saying this, I hope – most mages are of little use without their…talents."

_Speak for your own kind, you overgrown iguana. _Xanos was damned useful, even without his magic. For example, Drogan had found me incredibly useful whenever he needed his furniture moved or a book retrieved from a high shelf. No one could move heavy objects or find things in high places quite like Xanos. Best not to tell the Zhentarim that, though. "A pity," I murmured out loud. Another quick glance sent another column of symbols filing obediently into my memory. "Another mage might be worth a score of strong hands. They can do things that brute strength cannot." I leaned forward. _Don't read – just look. Look through. _"Surely there are ways-"

The lizard waved a hand. "Oh, there are, there are," he said. "But most of those ways are either costly or…of questionable effectiveness."

"Oh? A well-placed geas can be quite effective." _Go on, ask me how I know_.

"Yet costly. Few mages can lay one, as I am sure you know. Fewer still can lay one which is not easily circumvented."

_Few mages, and one astoundingly pigheaded little Bedine_. "A pity, nonetheless." I forward again. I was looking for a column of patterns, twenty or more, all similar, they would have to be, a tribe of Bedine all together, no reason to record them apart, twenty or more strings with the same beginning or ending, same origin, same date…_there._ "What else have you, then?"

The asabi obliged me, and pages turned under my eyes.

I absorbed each page. I could not afford to fail. Lives rested on it.

_Mine most of all._


	36. Chapter 36

A fire crackled in the fireplace. It burned low. I had not bothered to revive it.

There was a single window in the room, looking out onto an inner courtyard. The window was dark, showing more within than without.

Within the window, my reflection sat with its back to a chair, forearms propped up on my knees, a half-forgotten quill held between my fingers. A bead of ink swelled at its nib, threatening to ruin the carpet.

Papers surrounded my seated reflection. Crumpled papers, torn papers, folded papers. Papers stacked on the table next to me, papers littering the floor all around me.

_Far too many papers._ They reflected the frantic scribblings of a failing mind.

The other panes showed a room, broken into blurred vignettes.

One pane up: a darkened doorway stood beyond the firelight's reach. It was empty. No sound from within.

One pane to the left: an armchair. Also empty. It had ceased to be comfortable some time ago.

Two panes to the left: A bed, blankets still neatly tucked and undisturbed. Empty.

One pane up and to the right: A table bearing a covered tray. Untouched.

I let my head fall back against the chair and looked at the reflections in the window, thinking.

What I would have liked, in that moment - more than anything - was to have Drogan there. I could have used his advice. I had run into a problem I could not easily solve. I was certain that I would be able to solve it in time, but still...

It would have been nice to talk to him. Just one more time. Just for a little while.

But of course this was all wishful thinking. Drogan was gone. There would be no more conversations by the fire, or sage advice, or even a short, sharp rap to the kneecaps with his cane.

_That bloody cane_. I even missed the cane. How could I miss the _cane_? I had hated the bloody thing with the heat of ten thousand fiery suns, and now I missed it?

_You had to go and die on me, old man, _I thought. My eyes stung. From the smoke, most likely. This chimney had the look of something that had not been cleaned since well before the fall of Netheril.

Memories of Drogan led me to others, as they often had in the past few months. For some reason, memories which had not plagued me much before Undrentide had done nothing but plague me since. Perhaps my strange death and resurrection had undone my mind in some way. It was as good an explanation as any.

Some of those memories centered around the cling of a feverish hand and mutterings that I had tried very hard not to hear. Mother had never been in full control of her power. I had always thought that she could have been far more than she was, with training, but without it, her life had become that of a half-mad hedge witch, wielding power like lightning - unpredictable, fey, and startling. As her body weakened in those last days, her power's control over her had only grown. When she was healthy, most of the things she said and saw could easily have been ascribed to hallucination and delusion. When she lay dying, her raving had begun to take on the ring of true divination.

I had not liked to hear it. I had not wanted to listen. Foolish of me, yes, but I had not been entirely in my right mind at the time, and I had not wanted to hear her speak to people that were not there. I had been there. I had wanted her to speak to _me_. But of course that had not happened – she had been too far gone into illness and madness, and no longer even knew who I was.

_She looked on the soul of the world_. And, like Karsus, it had left her mind shattered, and it seemed that every time she had tried to pull the pieces of her mind back together they had only fallen through her fingers, like dust.

_So much for power. _Why was it that those with true power always seemed to end up mad, or alone, or both?

Those memories led me inevitably to another, to the splat of mud on wet cloth – no coffin, no money for one and they had turned out to be damned near impossible to steal - and the steady patter of rain. Of course it would have been raining that day. The gods did like to piss on half-mad hedge witches and their half-orc sons.

Everyone left, sooner or later. Dead or fled, in the end it was always the same, and Xanos always ended up sitting alone in the dark.

I stared at my reflection in the window. Then I began to laugh. "This is ridiculous," I muttered, passing a hand over my face.

A light voice and a soft step nearly made me jump out of my skin. "What is ridiculous?" the voice asked.

My head jerked up. In the window I saw the blurred reflection of a figure standing a few feet away. It was short and had long, tousled dark hair. Brown skin. Huge eyes, so dark in the dying light that they looked like pools of spilled ink.

And, for some reason, she was wrapped in a blanket from the neck down. I did not question this strange providence, though I did wonder what she would do if I burned every robe and robe-like object in a twenty-mile radius. Most likely she would taking to wearing the curtains, rod and all.

I sat up, grimacing. _I am ridiculous_, I thought, disgusted with myself. _Sitting here wallowing in self-pity so deep that an army could sneak up on me. _It was the time of night, that was what it was. The early morning hours were always the worst. Every terror and misery seemed to live in these hours, and to creep up on the unsuspecting fool who really should be working rather than wallowing.

"Everything is ridiculous, princess," I said at last. I laughed again, and leaned forward, turning my attention back to the papers in front of me. A knot running from the back of my neck all the way down to my shoulder blades made itself known. I tried to ignore it. The floor had only been a temporary improvement over the chair. "Was there something you wanted?" I added impatiently. I gestured with my quill. "I am somewhat occupied, as you can see."

The little Bedine had to kick her blanket out of her way in order to walk. It was quite a sight, especially since she did not deign to acknowledge her difficulty and proceeded across the room with a dignity all out of proportion to her size. Once there, she stood frowning down at me. "Have you slept?" she asked.

I grunted. A thought occurred to me. I pulled another paper close and scribbled a note. "Sleep is irrelevant," I said dismissively.

Her frown deepened. I wondered if she ever smiled. A priestess of Shar presiding over a mass burial would have looked less gloomy. "And unless I miss my guess, you have not eaten, either," she insisted. "Is food irrelevant, too?"

I considered that. "Yes," I answered, and bent back to my work.

I heard her irritated 'tsk'. "Xanos-"

I sighed and sat back up. Obviously she was intent on interrupting me and would not be dissuaded unless I rolled her up in a carpet again, and I was too tired to bother with that. "What do you want, princess? Surely not to complain about my personal habits. I do not see how they effect you."

She hesitated. Then, abruptly, she sat. Her blanket pooled around her. I saw the outline of her fist below her throat, holding the blanket tightly closed. "You do not eat enough," she said sternly. "Nor sleep enough. I have seen it in these few days. You would rather neglect yourself than rest. That is not good. You will drive yourself to death this way."

_Good._ I stifled the treacherous thought. "_And_?" I demanded testily. "I will reiterate. What concern is it of yours?"

A new voice interrupted whatever her response might have been. "What's going on?" Brown sounded sleepy. His footsteps crossed the threshold from the other room. "I heard voices."

This would teach me to wish for companionship. I threw down my quill. Ink splattered from its nib. "Both of you?" I growled. "Nine Hells. Why can you two not stay where you are? Does the prospect of pestering me hold such allure that it draws you from a dead sleep?"

Nadiya ignored me. She looked up at Brown. "He has not eaten," she said disapprovingly. She nodded at me. "Or slept. Can you reason with him?"

"Reason? Brown?" I barked a laugh. "Hah!"

The boy shuffled over. "Well, why haven't you gone to bed?" he asked curiously. "It's awfully late. You need your sleep. We can't have you fainting or anything, can we?"

From a purely analytical point of view, it was almost fascinating how quickly my teeth began to grind whenever I was in the presence of these two. What had it taken, less than two minutes? "I am busy."

Brown had moved over to the fireplace. Leaning down, he picked up the poker and prodded at the coals. "Busy doesn't mean you have to pass out. Or starve," he argued.

"Spare your breath, boy," I snapped. "And stay away from that window," I added. "Gods know who might see you." The last thing I needed was a dead idiot on my hands.

He eyed the window with sudden wariness. Hastily, he dropped the poker and shrunk back. He appeared to be trying to make himself a part of the wall next to the mantelpiece. "Oh. Er. Right. Maybe I should-"

"Leave?" I finished for him. "Yes." I gathered my papers. "Go back to sleep. I will see you in the morning. Goodbye."

Nadiya spoke up. "Brown, stay," she said shortly. She kept her big dark eyes on me. "Since Xanos will not sleep, we will stay here until he does, so that he will not be alone," she announced.

My teeth were getting dangerously close to disintegration. "How kind of you."

She inclined her head regally. "Yes," she said. She raised her head and looked at me calmly, one eyebrow raised. If I did not know better, I might think that her expression was mocking. "And perhaps if we stay here, you may decide to seek your blankets all that much sooner."

I stared at her. I did not know whether to shake her for her stubbornness, turn her over my knee for her blatant attempt at manipulation, or to give up and laugh. "Why, you little-" I spluttered.

Nadiya ignored me. She fingered the papers nearest her curiously. "What is this?" she asked abruptly, interrupting me.

I reeled temporarily, knocked off balance by her interruption. I regrouped. "A memory," I said shortly.

"Of what?"

If she was going to badger me all night, I would be damned if I gave her a straight answer. "A book."

"What book?"

"Why do you care, princess? You cannot even read."

She put the paper down and glared at me. "I have changed my mind," she said. "Brown, please go out and find me a shovel."

Brown had sunk down to sit with his back to the wall, well away from the window. Now he looked up, alarmed. "What?" he squeaked. "Why?"

"So I can hit Xanos in the face with it."

Unexpectedly, I found a laugh bubbling up from deep in my chest. "My, my. I am impressed. That is quite the threat, little one."

She scowled at me. "Stop laughing," she commanded.

"Hah! It looks like Xanos is not the only one here who needs a nap."

She glowered back. "It is not my fault if you insist on staying up all night."

"Nobody is forcing _you_ to lose any sleep over what I do, princess. Tuck yourself into your blankets, dream your little dreams, and leave the difficult parts to Xanos. That is what you wanted out of me, is it not?"

It sounded as if her teeth were beginning to grind, too. Good. "I would not have to lose any sleep if you would just show some _sense_," she growled.

"Nothing anyone in this room has ever done has ever betrayed the slightest hint of good sense. Why start now?"

"And now you are just being insulting."

"This surprises you how?"

Brown cleared his throat. "Um," he said. "Sorry. I couldn't tell. Were you serious about that shovel, Nadiya?"

"No, she was not," I said, before she could do more than open her mouth. It was not an interruption. It was purest self-defense. "Besides, if she knocks my teeth out I will not be able to tell her what I have found," I added. This game was becoming boring, and I was too tired to keep fighting. I needed sleep. She was right on that, at least.

I saw her sit up. "What?" she demanded blankly. She looked around. "Did you find something in these papers?"

"Possibly." My mood soured again as I remembered why I had been having such a miserable night to begin with. "While you two have evidently been wasting time on irrelevancies like sleep, Xanos has been decoding some information from our asabi friend's ledger," I explained.

Brown peeled himself away from the wall to take a closer look. He examined the results of my night's work, tilting his head curiously. There was something in that mannerism which nagged at me. It took me a moment to figure out what that was. The boy did not blink. Oh, he blinked when nervous, and he blinked when startled, and he blinked when confused, but on the rare occasions when he was none of these things, he hardly blinked at all. "These?" the boy asked, oblivious. He nudged one of the papers with his foot, and promptly wobbled. I thought he would have fallen if he had not put a hand out and absent-mindedly steadied himself against the table. "These aren't a ledger. These just look like notes."

I snorted. "Well, I could hardly steal the bloody thing right out from under his nose, could I?" I had already done that once today, granted, but my victim had not been expecting it. This one had been more alert.

"Then how did you get it?"

"I convinced him to show it to me."

"I still don't see what use-"

"Then I memorized it."

"Oh." The boy scratched his head, bemused. "I hadn't thought of that. That's a neat trick."

"Why, thank you," I said drily. I did not mention that I had been on the verge of forgetting at least half of it. Some of those pages had flipped by rather quickly. I thought that I had gotten most of it right, though. The important parts, anyway. Hopefully.

From the corner of my eye I saw the princess inch closer, clutching her blanket to her and peering at the papers with a wary sort of curiosity, as if they might rear up and bite her. "What was in this ledger?" she asked.

I spared her a brief sideways glance before looking away again. "It records the movements of all slaves who enter the city," I said shortly.

She was silent for a moment. "Including-" Her voice trailed off, as if she did not dare to say what she thought it might be, either for fear of getting her hopes up or for fear of being overheard.

I did not ask her to elaborate. From her voice, it seemed she had already reached the correct conclusion. "Yes," I said.

Her intake of breath was sharp. I could not tell if it was a half-gasp of surprise, or the start of a sob, quickly checked. "You found it."

I shifted uncomfortably. I hoped she would not start crying. If she did, I hoped she would use her blanket to blow her nose. I seemed to have some vague recollection that an appropriate response to seeing a woman cry was to offer her some kind of handkerchief or handkerchief-like object, but I had no such thing, and I was not about to offer up my sleeve for her to slobber on. "Er. Yes."

"You found it," she whispered. Suddenly, she smiled at me. I had never seen her smile before. It seemed as rare a sight as a rainbow in the Abyss. "Thank you."

A few seconds too late, I realized that I had been staring. I looked down at the papers in my hand. For some reason, I wanted to hit _myself _in the face with a shovel. It was a struggle to remember what I had been about to say. I was aware that I was not thinking as clearly as I should have been. I had not slept, that was it. I had not slept and Nadiya was beaming at me as if I had given her flowers instead of news of the annihilation of her entire family and the world, as a consequence of this, had momentarily ceased to make any sense. I groped for words that might restore some sanity to the equation. "Do not thank me yet," I warned her.

She had stopped smiling. I regretted my words immediately. I felt relieved. I suspected, very strongly, that I was a fool. "Why not?" she asked.

I tried to gather my thoughts. They kept darting off in strange directions. "Because it is in cipher and Xanos…cannot decipher all of it." The admission left a bitter taste in my mouth. "Though I have found...enough." Enough to make a start, anyway. I cleared my throat. My voice became clinical. Good. Clinical was…good. "To begin with, race, age, and gender are not encoded. Recall that the little fool at the gate inquired about yours. Apparently he was telling the truth when he said that it is standard practice to record those details. The seller's name and date of sale, if applicable, are also recorded, but encoded. So is the owner's name, which is what allowed me to crack the first cipher. I knew I needed to find Thimm's name. I simply needed to find a likely match. Something with the right number of letters in the right order, assuming that the cipher was for personal use and therefore not especially complex."

She nodded, looking down. She had her arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders hunched forward under her blanket. "I see," she said quietly. Her eyes stayed on the floorboards. "And?"

"And it turned out to be encoded with a simple substitution system." I gestured to one of the piles at my elbow. "You will find what you are looking for on the third page. Apparently this Thimm, their buyer, is not of a high enough position to evade the tentacles of Zhentarim bureaucracy – or perhaps he simply feels no need to. There are twenty-three names recorded. Place of capture: El Ma'ra. Place of origin is listed simply as 'Anauroch'. No mention of your oasis. Either they do not know of it or your kin have been able to keep their origins a secret."

She nodded, fingering the papers with a slightly helpless air. Her people really should have taught her how to read. This inability was crippling her needlessly. "When was this?" she asked. "When were they here?"

"The date is written in the standard merchant's format," I answered. "It is used all over Faerun. Eight characters. Two digit day, two digit month, four digit year. The numerals use the Maztican system. With eight characters the number of possible combinations is limited. It took me less than half a candlemark to decipher the code." I paused to give her the opportunity to express her admiration of this feat.

She did not look particularly admiring. "And?"

I scowled. "And _what_?"

"Do not take me for a fool," she snapped back. "They are not here, or you would not be looking for them in a book. _When were they here_?"

My irritation deflated. "Ah. Yes," I said. "That." I cleared my throat. "They…were registered twelve days ago."

To my surprise, she did not immediately try to kill me. I would have deserved it. The slavers' lead had widened. I was trailing. _Losing_. "What else?" she asked. Her voice was strained.

I considered where to begin. "I was also able to decipher their physical condition," I said eventually. "There are four variables, repeating throughout. Poor, fair, good, excellent. Fairly straightforward. Substitution again, plus the positioning within the text made it obvious."

Her forehead wrinkled. "How so?"

I shrugged. "The asabi thinks left to right," I said. "Most people do. It is how he learned to read, and thus how he writes and records values. And, for some reason, most people, when confronted with a series of numbers to list, will start with the lowest on the left and ascend to the right." I brushed my fingers across the face of the nearest page. "The asabi is like most people. He has the lowest value, poor, on the left, ascending to the highest, excellent, on the right."

She nodded. I saw her nostrils flare as she drew in a breath. "What…what condition were they in?"

I hesitated. "How old is your sister?" I asked.

"Twelve."

There had been only one of those. I wished there had been more. It would have given me more potential responses to choose from. This way, it was either lie through my teeth or tell the truth, and the tugging in my head suggested that lying would violate the terms of the geas. I could have convinced myself that a lie would serve her as well as the truth, but it was…difficult to make myself believe that. Very difficult. "She was in fair condition," I said at last. "Details were not offered."

Her voice was hoarse. "But she is alive."

"Yes." I looked at her face. "And you may rest assured that Thimm will try to keep her that way," I added, on impulse. It was the truth, after all. At least, I suspected that it was. "She is a sorceress. She is worth a hundred warriors. More, if she is strongly gifted, and more still once she is trained. He will not readily give that up, not as long as there is a chance that he can bring her to his side."

She nodded again, mechanically. "Good," she said. She swallowed. "And the others?"

"Some…were sold, it appears."

"Who? And how many?"

I thought back. "Ten," I replied. "Most slaves above forty years, it seems. Most of the men. And some young women."

The girl twined her fingers together. Her knuckles were white. "My mother is forty-three," she said haltingly. "Was she-"

That, at least, was not bad news. "No. At least, there was only one such listing, and it was still under Thimm's ownership." I suspected that I knew why.

She took another breath. "But…they are no longer all together. Is that right?"

That, on the other, _was_ bad news. "Yes," I answered. "Though, as I mentioned, it seems that your mother and sister are still together." I thought that bore repeating.

"Why?"

I shifted again – partially because my knees had joined my back in aching, and partly because I had hoped she would not ask that question. "There are two possibilities," I said reluctantly.

"And those are?"

"It…may have been a calculated move to gain the girl's trust."

She would not give up. "Or?"

"Or it might have been a move to gain leverage over her."

Her voice was toneless. "Leverage."

"Yes. If she does not cooperate-"

Her voice struck like a whip. "I understand what you mean," she snapped. "_Enough_. You and that fat woman made it very clear what the Zhentarim will do to coerce my sister. You do not need to say it again."

I had no answer for that, and with nothing to say, I said nothing.

Eventually, she spoke again, her mouth in a bitter twist. "And so I get to decide, do I?" she asked. "Who to leave to their fate, and who to follow?" She turned to me. "How can I make a decision like that?" she demanded. Her eyes were red-rimmed and close to tears. "Who do I save?"

I looked back, raising an eyebrow. "You are asking for my advice?" I asked mildly.

"Yes." She blinked. Her jaw firmed. "I am."

_Will wonders never cease? _Bemusedly, I leaned back and considered the alternatives. Then I spoke. "I would follow the greater group," I said. "It will allow you to save as many as possible in the shortest time possible. It will also allow you to say those you care most to save." I caught her glare. "Do not look at me like that, princess. You clearly care more for your mother's and sister's welfare than that of the others. If so, save them first."

She stared at me, her face twisted in disbelief. "And so I let the others go, just like that?"

I spread my hands. "You asked for my advice," I reminded her. I brought my hands back together. "As Xanos sees it, you can search for ten separate needles in ten separate haystacks, or you can concentrate your efforts on one – and while you search for the others, your sister will remain in Thimm's hands. The longer she stays with him, the more likely she is to become his weapon."

Her face turned even more incredulous, and she half-turned away, shaking her head. "A weapon?" she scoffed. "Zebah? She is as gentle as a lamb. She would never harm me. She would never harm anyone."

Magic twined around my spine, burning in my blood and skin and bones, as restless and hungry as a caged tiger. "She is what she is," I said softly.

She threw me a baleful look. "And you?" she growled. "Do you so advise me to do this because you think it is best, or because you see this course as the quickest way to freedom?"

Irritation flickered. So did the fire, which rose a little higher on the hearth. I was tired, that was the issue. It was always harder to restrain the magic when I was tired. "Time is no more on my side than it is on yours, princess," I pointed out. "Besides, what do my motives matter if our interests coincide?"

She chewed her lower lip. "What interests?" she asked warily. "You have no stake in this-"

"I did not. However, thanks to you, I am now…involved. No doubt I have already made a few enemies. I have gone too far down this road to leave it now." I paused. "Besides, I would not like to see a fellow sorcerer enslaved." Truth again. Exhaustion was turning me honest. I tried to recover. "It sets a bad precedent. Someone might come looking for Xanos, next. We cannot have that. I would make a terrible slave."

She gave me another long look, then shook her head and sighed. "Very well," she said grudgingly. "What else can you tell me?"

"Ah." I cleared my throat. "About that. Yes. I…did not mention. There was a fifth variable."

She looked at me sharply. "What was it?"

"Deceased."

She did not blink. Instead, her face went very still, all expression pulling away from it like water flowing down a drain. "How many?"

"Four." Hot metal splinters under the fingernails would have been more comfortable than this. "I know their ages and genders only."

Her voice cracked like a whip. _"Tell me."_

I sighed and closed my eyes, briefly, summoning up a memory. A list wrote itself across the insides of my eyelids. I read off of it. "Female, age sixty-two," I murmured. "Male, age fifty. Male, age four months. Female, age one." I opened my eyes. "The others were alive. They ranged from fair to poor."

She had her fist balled against her mouth, biting her knuckles. "Four months," she murmured against her fingers. "Mirim's child, then. She had not named him yet." A sputter of laughter escaped her – high, abrupt, uneven. "It is bad luck to name a child before his first summer." Another sputter of laughter, half a sob. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as if to stop it. "B-bad luck. Oh, spirits…"

I looked away as she turned away, her hand over her mouth. If there was a god whose sphere encompassed screamingly uncomfortable moments, I thought he was with us now. I wished him a speedy trip to the Abyss.

Brown stepped forward, his hand reaching down to touch her shoulder. His eyes were pitying. "I'm sorry, Nadiya," he said softly.

I threw a sheaf of papers aside. "Shut up, boy," I growled. My knees screamed as I tried to stand. Sitting on the floor had been a bad idea. Of course, sitting on the chair had been worse. Just once, I would have liked to find seating sized to half-orc backsides. Just once.

The boy blinked and looked at me, bewildered. "What?"

I made it to my feet. "You heard me, I said. There were papers on the chair, where I had thrown them behind me as I wrote. Methodically, I began to pile them into a single, neat stack. "Come here, boy. Leave her be." I knew that I was not behaving rationally. I did not know why. If she was upset, so be it. After what she had done to me, I had no sympathy to spare for her.

_Pride, _I thought. Perhaps that was it. She was a proud woman. Xanos may not have known a damned thing about comforting crying women, but he knew all about pride. The only thing worse about such a moment of weakness was having a bloody _audience_ to it. I could no more subject her to that than subject myself to it. It was not that I cared for her feelings. It was that the whole notion of such a humiliation was repugnant. I could not even watch it.

Besides, she had bested me. The geas I was under showed as much. She had been lucky, but a win was a win. "Come here," I repeated. Irritably, I gestured to the floor. "And pick up those papers while you are at it, boy. Make yourself useful for once."

The boy moved slowly, confused. I stepped aside to make room for him, twitching my robes out of the way. "Under the chair, as well," I ordered. No reason for Xanos to subject his knees to all that kneeling when there were shorter people around who were already much closer to the floor and could do the kneeling for him. "There are some to your left…good. Give them here." I accepted the papers and added them to the pile.

Then I rolled the pile of papers up as tightly as possible, balanced them on my palm, ran a mental check to make certain that I remembered all that I needed to remember, and set the papers on fire.

Green flame licked upward from my palm. Pale parchment smoldered, then blackened, its edges curling inward like a flower blooming in reverse.

When nothing was left but fine black ash, I let the fire go. My power subsided, liquid fire in my veins. Losing it left a hollow taste of disappointment in my mouth and a shiver in my spine. I shoved the loss and shiver both in a mental box, lined it with adamantium, and locked it. "There," I said hoarsely.

Brown blinked at me owlishly. "Why did you do that?" he wondered.

I dusted my hands off and cleared my throat. "Always hide the evidence," I said vaguely. "It is one of the secrets to a long life. Well, a longer life, at any rate." I looked at my hands. _Gah._ They were filthy with ash. I stalked to the bedside table. "Is there water in that basin? Yes? Excellent."

I was drying my hands when _she_ spoke again. "Xanos?" she said.

I jumped at the sound of her voice. The towel fell out of my hands and into the basin with a sad, soggy splash. I scowled at it. Then I scowled down at the water spots on the front of my robes. _I had just washed those, too, _I thought mournfully. "Yes?" I said testily.

I heard her clear her throat and sniffle. "The part you cannot decipher?" Her voice was husky. "What is that?"

I hesitated. "Owner's location," I said shortly.

"Oh."

Saying it out loud was like jabbing a red-hot needle into an open wound. A festering wound. With maggots in it. "The only thing I actually need to know, in other words."

"I see." She was silent for a moment. "Well...you did your best."

Something snapped inside my head. I spun to face her. On the hearth, the fire flared up with a roar, its outer tongues green-tinged. "Then my best," I roared, "-is not good enough!"

Warily, she looked at the raging fire on the hearth, then back to me. "Xanos…that is not…I did not say…"

Power was bleeding out of me, making the fire climb higher and the candles flicker. It took an effort to draw it back into me. _Control._ I needed control. I knew how a lack of control ended - I would die raving and consumed by my own power. "I do not care what you have to say," I snapped. "I know the truth, woman. Failure is failure." Taking a deep breath, I clasped my hands behind my back. They wanted to shake. I wanted to explode.

I began pacing instead. It was a poor substitute, but it was either that or blow a hole in the nearest wall, and that would only make the other guests complain. "What I _need_ is that bloody _key_. Or, Hells – just a moment alone with that chest." The ram's head ring on my right index finger was a solid, reassuring weight. "Just get me in there for half a bloody moment..."

Brown had flattened himself against the wall again. In my frustration, I had not noticed it. Now, he watched me, unblinking and more than a little afraid. _Good._ Fear was good. I was good at inspiring fear. With any luck, I would inspire enough in him to keep him in line. "W-what chest?" he asked.

I reached the end of the room and spun on my heel, pacing back the other way. "That lizard's personal stash box," I answered shortly. "He has a journal in there-" I bit off my words with an inarticulate snarl. _No._ _Control. Calm. _"Damn it. It was right in front of me," I muttered then, half under my breath. "He hardly let it out of his sight. I must have been blind."

_She_ was watching me, on her feet now and well away, I noticed, from the hearth and its raging, green-tinged fire. "I…think you need to try explaining that again," she said carefully.

"It is quite simple," I said impatiently. I turned on my heel again. My fingers were clasped so tightly together that my knuckles ached, but the fire was ebbing, its tongues shrinking and turning more orange than green. _Good._ "These last few codes are written in a type of cipher which appears to be referencing pages and paragraph numbers within a separate text."

Her head turned to watch me. Her eyes narrowed speculatively. "The journal?" she guessed.

Well, it was good to see that she could do things with her head other than hit people with it. "Without a doubt," I said. That also explained why Undissa had kept the book so close. If my guess about the cipher's origin was correct, that journal was not just a personal record. It was the key to all of Orofin's slave trading operations. No doubt he was willing to show it to customers because he did not expect his customers to memorize it. He was a fool, if so. Anyone with some magical training would have been taught that particular trick. Then again, if he was no mage, perhaps he did not know that. "If Xanos finds that book, he will be able to unravel the cipher."

She watched me a few moments longer. Then, decisively, she nodded. "Very well," she said. "Then we must take it from him."

I stopped and turned to stare at her. "_We_?" I repeated incredulously.

She scowled back. Now she looked offended. Why was she offended? _Now_ what had I said? "Yes," she said. "_We_. Do you think that I would send you to your death on my behalf?"

I stared a moment longer. "I thought that was the point," I said sharply.

She shook her head just as sharply. "No," she said. Steel slithered, and she raised her hand, the blanket falling away from her arm as she held her scimitar out before her. The leather grip was frayed, and the blade itself was pitted and scarred with age – all but the edge, which gleamed. "This is my ancestor's sword," she said. "I carry it in his name. I will use it to kill the man who took my people, or I will die trying." She pointed it at me. "_I_ will. Not you. Not anyone else." Reversing the sword, she slid it back into its sheath, concealed under her makeshift cloak. "My people. My fight. Do you understand me?"

Understand her? Her perspective was as alien to me as the backside of the moon. She came from a family of dozens and a lineage that she could trace through a hundred generations. Of the three people I might once have called family, two were dead and one was as good as dead, and the gods only knew what lineage had spawned me. _She_ would kill for her family, but Xanos? How could one kill for something one did not have?

I looked away from her. I wondered what her family had done to earn such loyalty. I hoped that they valued it. If not, I hoped she had a sword in hand when she found out that they did not. "That is where you are wrong, princess," I said at last. "It stopped being your fight when you drew me into it."

Her determined expression vanished with a wince. "I know," she said awkwardly. She found something interesting to look at near her toes. "If it matters…I…I am sorry. I should not have done that."

I resumed my pacing. "Then why did you do it?" I threw over my shoulder. No need to say what 'it' was. We both knew. It loomed between us like a gallows.

"Because I need you to find him."

_I need you._ Now those were three little words that a man liked to hear. Pity that they were occurring in entirely the wrong context.

Brown cleared his throat. "Um," he said. "What about me? I can help, you know."

I spared him a scathing glance. "If we need you to cut his purse, we will let you know," I said dismissively.

The boy was not to be dissuaded. "Why cut his purse?" he insisted stubbornly. "Why not sneak in there, open his chest, and steal his book?"

That made me pause. I looked at him sidelong, one eyebrow arched. "Did you say _steal_, boy?" I asked slyly. "My, my. And here Xanos thought you were against such…immoral activities."

He shrugged awkwardly. "It's not right to hurt people just to hurt them, that's true," he agreed. His face darkened. "But this…_lizard _has hurt people, too. Or he's sold them to people who hurt them. Why should we be nice? Let him lose his precious book. Maybe he'll have a harder time hurting people without it."

This was a new side to the boy – or perhaps not. He had tracked us through the desert, after all. He may have acted like he had a wet noodle for a spine, but wet noodles did not last long in deserts. "And you are not nervous about walking into a heavily guarded building in a place like this?" I asked mildly.

"Oh, I'm so scared I think I might wee myself, actually," the boy admitted frankly. "But then, I'm always scared, so really this isn't any different." His laugh was shaky. "The funny thing is that I don't even remember a time when I _wasn't _scared. Isn't that strange? I know I must have felt safe, once." His eyes were distant. "I just…can't seem to remember what it was like."

I stopped my pacing, paused, and turned to face him. "And why can you not be safe, boy?" I asked quietly. I met his eyes and held them. I had been told that my eyes could be unsettling, so I let him look and be unsettled. "Tell me. What is so special about you that makes you believe you are in such danger from the Zhentarim?"

The boy turned his face away, averting his eyes. "It's not-" he began. Then he blinked uncertainly. "Um," he said then. "What's that at the window?"

I snorted. I did not take my eyes from him. "Nice try, but if you think that will-"

Nadiya's sudden, startled intake of breath stopped me in mid-sentence. I heard steel hiss, and alarm in her voice, and when she said, "Xanos, there _is_ something-" I remembered that while Brown might have been a fraud, _she_ was, without a doubt, the worst liar in the entire Anauroch.

Guided half by instinct, I half-turned, the hairs on the back of my neck rising almost as quickly as I threw down the floodgates and let _it_ loose.

That was when several things happened at once.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the white flash of a flaring ward, and in the same instant heard the click of a lock being undone.

Steel sang out of its sheath – Nadiya, drawing her sword. _Good girl_.

Something else clicked, and I felt the stirrings of a breeze – the window, opening. _No time_. _Door first._

I twisted, a globe of fire springing to life between my outstretched hands, and saw the door opening and a dark shape slide in.

I saw the flicker of metal as the figure raised a crossbow. He aimed at my heart. I heard a click.

I jerked my hands wide, yanking the globe of fire into two pieces.

One part I aimed at the crossbow. The other I aimed at his head.

The assassin's crossbow vanished in a gout of witchfire. So did his head.

No time to admire my handiwork. I twisted again…

…and jerked to a halt with a knife at my throat, held by a wiry leather-clad arm, just as the silvery arc of Nadiya's scimitar came to quivering halt against my attacker's neck…and stopped.

Silence fell, broken only by the creak of the window casement, swinging slightly in the night breeze.

I looked down my attacker's arm to a face that was as grim as death and twice as ugly.

Brown's voice, as usual, was the first to break the silence.

"_Ishiko_?" he said incredulously. "Is that you?"


	37. Chapter 37

We stood in a motionless triangle, the geriatric creak of the open window the only sound in the room.

No one made a move. There was a tension in the air that hinted at the potential for sudden, lethal violence, and not all of that tension was coming from me.

The Kara-Turan woman had both of her arms outstretched, a knife at my throat and a handaxe at the little Bedine's.

Nadiya had the tip of her scimitar resting against the other woman's belly, hard enough to dent the leather but not enough to cut. Her hand was rock steady, but her doe's eyes were wide, and she was breathing hard.

I felt Ishiko's pulse beat against my fingers. It was altogether too calm for a woman who had a half-orc's hand wrapped around her neck. The fragile rings of cartilage that made up her windpipe lay just beneath my fingers. She had to know that as things stood I did not even need to turn to magic to kill her - all I had to do was _squeeze. _This knowledge, however, did not seem to distress her.

We stayed that way for several tense heartbeats. No one seemed inclined to move. Or breathe.

Gradually, I noticed an acrid smell in the air, one that burned my throat and made my eyes sting. It seemed to be coming from just below chin level. "Ah," I said distantly. "That dagger is poisoned, isn't it?"

Ishiko's eyes flicked to me and back to the Bedine woman again. "Yes," she said curtly.

"I see." Well, that in itself was not necessarily a problem. There was a ring of yellowed bone on the index finger of my right hand that gave me some measure of protection against most common poisons - another lucky find in the Blacksands bazaar. At the very least, the ring would slow the poison's progress through my bloodstream long enough for me to make it to a potion of antidote. The issue was that I did not know what poison was on that blade, and I did not particularly care to risk finding out the hard way that this particular poison was something rare and deadly that my ring could not counteract.

Then, of course, there was the issue that even if the poison did not kill me, a dagger in the carotid certainly would - and there was no guarantee that I would be able to kill her so quickly that she would not have the instant she needed to shove the blade in.

I calculated the odds. _Could be better. _"Brown," I said tightly.

"W-what?"

The boy's voice had a strange echo to it. "Where in the Hells are you, boy?"

"H-hiding."

The corner of the Kara-Turan's mouth turned up slightly. She did not take her eyes off of either of us. "He's under the bed," she said drily.

_Under the… _Whatever charitable thoughts I had had about the boy's nerve, I took them back. I took them all back. "Get out from under there, you dolt," I said from between gritted teeth.

A series of scrapes, rustles, and muffled "ouch"'s came from behind me. The boy's voice became less muffled. "S-sorry," he stammered sheepishly. "I got a little, um. S-scared. Sorry."

If he thought _this_ was frightening, just wait until this was over. I would show him what real fear was. I would have him pissing his britches so hard that the Zhentarim would have to evacuate this city on a bloody _boat_. "Close the window," I growled.

The boy complied. "All right," he said nervously. "Now what?"

"Check the body."

"What for?"

_Loose change and pocket lint, you nitwit._ Constrained as I was by the dagger against my neck, however, I had to content myself with a stiff, "Is he dead?"

The boy's footsteps crossed the room. On the edge of my vision, I saw him stumble towards the door. He leaned over gingerly. "Um," he said uncertainly. "I…I think so. I…oh, dear." He covered his mouth. "He...he has no head," he added, sounding sick. "And, um. He's got a c-crossbow bolt in the chest."

Well, the crossbow bolt was inconclusive, but the missing head was fairly definitive as far as proof of death went. "Good," I said distantly. "Close the door. Quickly." It clicked shut. Moving only my eyes, I looked at Ishiko. "Is that bolt yours?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, are you planning to kill me?"

Her eyebrow lifted. "If I did, I would have shot you before you saw me," she said coolly.

The pressure against my throat had eased slightly. I decided to risk slightly longer sentences. "Then we may conclude that this entire exercise is pointless," I said.

Her head tilted slightly in acknowledgement, insofar as it could with my hand around her neck. "Probably."

"So why don't you lower that thing so we can talk?"

She squinted at me warily. "Let go of me first," she countered.

The Bedine on the other end of the scimitar narrowed her eyes. "No," she said. She dug the point of her scimitar a little further in to the other woman's belly. "_You_ let go of _us_ first."

Ishiko's eyes slid over to her, cool as a snake's. "You know I can beat you, girl," she pointed out, just as if I did not have my hand poised to crush her windpipe.

The girl gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. "True," she said evenly. She sounded almost as calm as Ishiko, which was something coming from a woman who had almost fainted at the prospect of wearing trousers.

The Kara-Turan's eyebrows rose. "So why put up a fight?" she asked.

The other woman hesitated. A sad smile appeared on her face, briefly, and was gone almost as suddenly as it had appeared. "I am Bedine," she said. Her chin lifted. "We are at our best in the face of certain defeat."

I was tempted to laugh. I did smile. _Never let it be said that the Bedine lack for bravery, _I thought. _Sense, yes. Bravery, no. _"If this were certain defeat, we would be dead already," I said. "Which makes this entire conversation absurd." I looked at Ishiko. "Come now," I chided her. "Xanos is not standing here all night. What is it? Kill or truce? Time is wasting."

Ishiko hesitated. "How do I know I can trust you?"

My smile widened into a grin. "You cannot," I admitted blithely. "But I _could_ have blown your head off ten times by now. The fact that I have not should count for something, eh?"

Ishiko considered that. "Fair enough," she conceded. "On the count of three, then?"

The other woman studied her thoughtfully. "Agreed," she said.

"Very well. One. Two-"

On 'three', we all lowered our various weapons and stepped back. Some of the tension ebbed from the room.

Ishiko was the first to relax, reversing her dagger and sliding it into a sheath at her hip. Her hand axe she hooked over her belt. "Sorry about that," she said laconically, folding her bony arms over her bony chest. She nodded at the corpse near the door. "Came here as soon as I figured out what he was doing. No time to warn you."

Nadiya had lost her blanket in the commotion. As I watched, she sheathed her sword, and the fabric of her shirt temporarily went taut across the muscles in her shoulder and upper arm. So did the laces holding the neck of her shirt closed, which were straining against other, more significant forces. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, the laces were losing. "Why did you not tell us you were here before?" she asked the other woman crossly. "We might have avoided all this…" She gestured, seeming at a loss for words. The movement threatened to burst her shirt in at least three places. "This mess."

I cleared my throat. Then I cleared it again. Bloody desert air was far too dry. What I needed was water. Preferably cold, and preferably a bucket of it. "You might have knocked," I agreed irritably. Crossing the room, I knelt beside the corpse, sweeping my robe back to avoid dredging the hem in blood. "Or shouted a warning. Or, Hells, you might have just slipped a note under the door."

Ishiko shrugged. "Like I said – no time to warn. Only saw him in time to shoot him." She eyed the corpse. "Looks like I needn't have bothered."

"Mmh. Yes, well, it would not be the first time someone has tried to shoot Xanos – and, as I am sure you will note, _I _am still alive." Resting my elbows on my knees, I studied the body curiously. It wore dark garb with no distinguishing insignia. Near its outstretched hand there was a small crossbow, the type that could easily be concealed beneath clothing, and there were some pouches at its belt. No armor to speak of. This one had depended on silence to protect him, though he had not counted on my ward.

_Strange_, I mused. One would expect that an assassin assigned to murder a mage or a sorcerer would be prepared for such an obstacle. Wands of dispelling may have been costly, but death was arguably more so.

Frowning, I continued my inspection. Above the corpse's neck, things became messier. There were some skull fragments, still smoking, and the carpet bore a significant smearing of what had been contained in the man's skull before I had blown it open. The air stank of burnt hair and cooked flesh. Smears of blood, blackened with ash and thickened with gray matter, decorated the wall behind him, still slowly dripping. Not much else was left of his head. Certainly not a face. I had obviously hit him a little too hard with that fireball. In my defense, I had been startled and he had been pointing a weapon at me, so I thought I could be forgiven for a somewhat extreme response.

Thoughtfully, I leaned forward, and – being sure to keep the Kara-Turan in my line of sight - began to go through the corpse's pockets.

Ishiko watched me. "He came to kill one of you," she said blandly. She shrugged. "Don't know which. Sorry."

I half-looked up. "Really?" I drawled. "And here Xanos thought the man might have been here to deliver a complimentary fruit basket and a bottle of wine. My dreams have been crushed."

The Kara-Turan looked at me, expressionless. "You're funny," she said, in a flat tone of voice which implied the exact opposite.

I rolled my eyess. "Well, _someone_ around here has to have a sense of humor, and you ladies most definitely are not it," I retorted, still searching the corpse's pockets for clues. I found a brace of crossbow bolts, poison-tipped, which I helped myself to. He had a few potion vials – some of antidote, some of healing, one which looked like poison – along with sundries like a length of twine, lockpicks, and a small pot of grease. I left the rest, but took the potions. They could be identified later, and may turn out to be useful.

The pouches thus catalogued, I ran my fingers along the dead man's jerkin until I felt something – the crinkle of paper. Untying it, I found an interior pocket sewn into the breast. There was a folded-up slip of paper tucked into the pocket. I tugged it free and unfolded it. "Interesting," I murmured. I held the note up between my middle and forefinger. "This note is signed."

Nadiya frowned. "By whom?"

I glanced at her briefly, then stood, nodding at Ishiko. "Watch her," I told the Bedine woman, my voice curt. I looked at Brown. "Both of you. And if he hides again, princess, you have my permis…no, my _encouragement_ to gut him." Turning to the door, I ran my finger through the bloody ash that was splattered across the wall. Carefully, I re-traced the ward, in blood this time, letting a bare trickle of power flow into it. It glowed briefly, then dulled. That done, I turned to face the others again. No knife in my back – that was already a positive sign. "The note is signed by Aglast Thimm," I said, stepping away from the threshold and adding, "Which most likely means that Thimm had nothing to do with this."

The little Bedine's frown deepened, adding a deep furrow between her eyebrows. "Why?"

"Because," I replied, "-when you send an assassin to kill your enemy, you do not leave him with a note in his pocket with your signature on it. Not unless you happen to be a complete idiot."

Ishiko shrugged. "Why not?" she asked indifferently. "If the target's dead he won't be reading much."

"And yet here I am, very much alive. A wise man plans for contingencies like these. Are you saying that Xanos is being targeted by a moron?"

She spread her hands in the universal gesture for, '_Damned if I know_.' "Could be."

I laughed. "Gods, I hope not," I said. "What an insult! Surely a nuisance of Xanos's caliber deserves a better class of enemy, don't you think?" I waved a hand. "No, no, don't answer that_. _Gods only know what kind of an answer you might come up with." I began to pace again. "Besides, even if he had somehow succeeded in killing me, he still might have been captured," I added. "Or perhaps he was addicted to black lotus, and might have allowed the note to slip from his pocket in a narcotic fugue. There are many ways for such things to fall into the wrong hands." I turned and wagged the note at her. "That is why only a fool consigns his plans to paper." And I did not think this Thimm was a fool.

The men in Hlaunga had called him The Poisoner. They had been afraid of him. They had been merchants, men of little power and even less influence, but where dread had run so deep, a wise man did not go digging blindly. A wise man watched, and waited, and held his strength in reserve until he had enough information to know precisely when, where, and how to strike.

Unless he was cornered, of course. In that case it was time for the wise man to go down in a blaze of glory and take everything for a few miles in every direction with him.

In any case, I saw no reason why this Thimm should send an assassin after me. I have not moved against him, either openly or overtly. All I had done was ask a few oblique questions - though it seemed far too strange a coincidence to find his name on an assassin sent to kill me. Could it be that I had not been as subtle as I had hoped, or that someone here was aware of my trip to Hlaunga and had added the two facts together to reach…what? What conclusion might be reached? That I was up to something might have been clear, but it would have taken a significant leap of intuition to connect me to Thimm. There was very little which I had actually done on which one might base such suspicions.

_Unless they know about her. _Perhaps alone my inquiries had not been not enough to attract attention, but in the company of a Bedine woman, and in the light of Thimm's recent purchases, perhaps…

Ishiko spoke, breaking into my thoughts. "Who sent him, then?" she asked.

I stopped, turn, and arched an eyebrow at her. "You?" I suggested bluntly.

She returned my look with a flat one of her own. "If I wanted you dead, I'd have let him kill you," she said. "Or killed you myself." She shrugged again. "Besides, why would I want to?" she added. "You've done nothing to me."

"Xanos might hasten to point out that personal motivations are not necessary for an assassin. One might even call them a hindrance."

Her eyes narrowed. Anger glinted in them. "I don't kill people for money," she said quietly.

That had been the first sign of real emotion I had seen from her. It did not bode well that it had been a hostile one. "Then why are you here?"

The Kara-Turan's anger faded. She shrugged yet again. "Ghufran wanted you watched," she said. "You and the boy. When I realized you were gone, I followed." She glanced at the corpse and raised her eyebrows. It was the only change in her expression. "Lucky for you I did," she added drily.

Luck, I suspected, had had nothing to do with it. "And you entered Orofin alone and undetected?"

My question did not seem to faze her. "Not hard." Her voice was calm. "Just find a big caravan. If there're people enough, no one notices one more."

Trying to pin this woman down was like trying to catch a bar of soap in a bathtub the size of the Sea of Stars. "These people seem very interested in recording each person who enters," I observed. Thoughtfully, I began pacing again, throwing words over my shoulder rapid-fire. "Has no one questioned you? Asked your name? Tried to throw you out for trespassing?"

A faint smirk appeared on her face. "Can't throw me out if they can't find me."

"I see." I reached one end of the room and turned, leveling a hard stare at the Kara-Turan. "Very well. And now that you have successfully bamboozled our hosts, what do you intend to do?"

"Now?" she echoed. "Now I stay with you." A thin smile flickered onto her thin lips. "Orders. Besides, you're planning something." She looked around the room idly. "In Zhent territory, too," she added, and clucked her tongue. "Risky. You'll probably need help. Oh, I'm not worried about you. Orc bloods are hard to kill. Cut 'em and they just get angry. You might survive a work crew. Maybe even the pits." She gestured towards Nadiya. "She won't, though. Neither will he."

I stopped again, regarding her thoughtfully. "You sound quite certain of that," I observed.

She returned my regard with a bland stare of her own. "They put me there," she said, and touched her axe briefly. "I know."

"Impressive," I said. I would have paid my weight in platinum to know exactly how many more weapons she was hiding about her person. "And so you escaped? Just like that?"

"Won my way out," she corrected me. Another glint appeared in her dark eyes. Pride, perhaps. "Not escaped."

I looked her up and down. Her leather was sun-faded and worn smooth by long use, as was the handle of her axe. "Only the most cunning, skilled, and vicious of fighters ever win their way free of the Zhentarim's gladiator pits," I mused.

The Kara-Turan woman clasped her hands in front of her chest and gave me a slight bow. Her expression did not change, but I thought the gesture had an ironic air to it.

"Ah," I murmured. "Well done." She would need to be watched. Carefully. Very, very carefully. I crossed the room again, my own hands clasped behind my back – making sure to keep her always at the corners of my vision. "And so they granted you your freedom, just like that?"

"Freedom was the prize. Most of us died for it." She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I didn't.

"And now, here you are, volunteering – out of the goodness of your cunning, vicious black heart – to help us."

"Not volunteering," she repeated. "Orders." She glanced at Nadiya. "Besides, I like the girl," she added. As far as declarations of affection went, it was the coldest-sounding one I had heard in my life - not that I had heard many. "She's got potential," the Kara-Turan went on. "Hate to see it lost in the pits.

Brown spoke up. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his bony arms wrapped around his gangly knees. "She does work for Ghufran," he offered. "I know that. I've seen them talking."

"Have you?" One of these days, I would have to figure out how to grow eyes in the back of my head. It would probably lengthen my lifespan immeasurably. "And what does Ghufran want?" I inquired.

Brown opened his mouth, but Ishiko answered. "Told you. She wants you watched." She jerked a finger at Brown. "And _him_ kept alive."

I grunted. "Does she, now?" I looked over at Brown. He still had his mouth hanging open. Either he had something to say or he was trying for his best impression of a dead fish. "Well, let the boy answer. I am curious to hear what he thinks." He was still staring. I snapped my fingers at him. He blinked and started violently. "Focus, boy. I am asking you a question. What does Ghufran want with you?"

His face turned sullen. He looked down, picking at a loose thread on his pants leg. "I have a name, you know," he mumbled.

"No doubt you do, boy. It might even be your real name, for all Xanos knows. But that is not what I asked. What makes you so important that that corpulent slug should want you kept in one piece?"

Brown seemed to be trying his best to unravel the fabric of his breeches in-situ. "I don't know why she thinks I'm important," he mumbled to his knees. He looked up. "I'm a good guide. That could be it, I guess."

Doubt was written all over his voice, and weighed down his tongue. "But you do not think so," I finished for him.

After a moment, he shook his head and looked down again. "I…I don't know what I think." I saw him frown. "I don't _think _she has any other reason. I can't imagine…"

Ishiko watched him. Whatever she thought, it did not show on her face. "A good guide's hard to find," she offered blandly.

I rolled my eyes. "Excellent," I said acidly. "Then take him to her, why don't you?" I flapped my hand. "Go on. Shoo."

Ishiko shook her head. "Can't," she said, almost apologetically.

"Why not?"

"Orders."

"You keep saying this."

"Yes."

"Just so you know, Xanos is finding it _incredibly_ annoying that you keep saying this."

Brown looked up again. His face brightened. "Maybe she can help us find the person who bought Nadiya's family," he suggested.

I would have bitten him, but it would have taken forever to wash the taste of stupidity out of my mouth. "Say it a little louder next time, boy," I growled. "They cannot have heard you in Luskan."

Ishiko raised a thin eyebrow. "Slaves, are they?"

I gritted my teeth, but did not deny it. What use? She had seen enough at this point to reach her own conclusions. "So it appears."

"And you want them freed." It was not a question.

I shot a glare over my shoulder. "What Xanos wants matters little," I said sourly. I reached the wall. Turned. Paced back. "The princess wants them back, and so the princess shall have them."

Ishiko tilted her head, looking me up and down. "Strange," she said blandly. "You didn't strike me as the type."

I stopped in mid-step. "Type?" I repeated. "What _type_?"

The Bedine woman stared at the Kara-Turan, narrow-eyed. "And you?" she asked Ishiko bluntly. "Will you still follow your orders?"

"Excuse _me_. Xanos is still speaking. What type?"

"Orders are orders. And Zhents are Zhents." Ishiko's face emptied of its tiny, amused smirk. Her hand caressed her axe handle. "I'm not going back to those pits."

"Xanos is not a _type. _Why do you think I am a type?"

Brown perked up. "So does this mean you're with us?"

The woman glanced at me, and spread her hands. "Guess I am," she said.

I stopped, and stared at them despairingly. My hand went to my forehead. I thought it might have been the only thing keeping my head from exploding. "Nine Hells," I swore.

Brown peered at me curiously. "What does that mean?"

Nadiya looked at me. Her hand whipped out. The back of it struck my arm - surprisingly hard. "You are being rude, Xanos," she said shortly.

I rubbed my arm. "Rude?" I scoffed. "Of course I am being rude! If you are fool enough to trust this hatchet-faced old-" I saw the second blow coming this time, and tried to block it. Unfortunately, I could not take my eyes off of Ishiko, which meant that I was forced to block using the forearm that my nemesis had already sliced open. Her fist landed directly on the half-healed cut. I let out a pained roar. "Hellfire, woman!" I erupted. "Would you kindly stop hitting me?"

She glared at me. "Will you be reasonable?" she snapped back.

"I _am_ being reasonable. You are the sadistic little beast who will not listen to reason!"

Ishiko stirred. "Children," she interrupted mildly. "No bickering." A smile flickered briefly across her face. "Or wait until later. Business now, eh?"

And now it was taking a murderer to call me back to something resembling rationality. Excellent. Why had Drogan saved my life again? "She started it," I muttered, after a long and uncomfortable pause.

Nadiya cleared her throat. She was not looking at me. Her face was flushed. "We need a thing the overseer has in his possession," she said gruffly.

The Kara-Turan looked at us thoughtfully. "Tricky," she said. "At least at first. He's in the pyramid. Guards at all the entrances. Have to find a way past them. Then…not so bad." A faint, grim smile curved her lips. "Zhents guard walls. Gates. Not people. You work for them, you guard yourself. You live, you get promoted. You die…well, you probably didn't deserve the job, anyway."

Brown spoke up. "What if he catches us?" he fretted.

Ishiko's voice was dry. "Try not to let him."

"Um. All right. But what if he does?"

Nadiya was chewing on her lower lip again. "Well, we will need a plan of escape, obviously," she said.

I was beginning to feel irrelevant. It was not a pleasant feeling. Snarling soundlessly, I yanked my mantle straight and stepped between them. "Fine," I said sourly. Not sulkily. Xanos did not sulk. I brooded. Majestically. "If this is the game, let us play it the right way." I looked at Ishiko. "Do you know a way out of the city?"

She inclined her head. "A few. Got a map?"

"Yes, I-"

"I have a map," Brown piped up.

I turned to stare at him. "_You _have a map of Orofin?"

He nodded and hopped off of the edge of the bed. "I do."

I watched him as he went to fetch his pack. "You do," I echoed flatly.

The boy dug through his meager belongings and pulled out a rolled-up cylinder of parchment. He stood, waving it in the air above his head as he fought a moment for his balance. "I do, I do. A good one, too," he babbled. Crossing the room, he deposited it triumphantly into my hands. "It took _forever, _let me tell you. Especially getting all the cobblestones right."

I gave him a last, bemused look before leaning over the fireside table. I unrolled the map and spread it out, smoothing the creases with my hands. "This is good," I said slowly, surprised. The map showed a near-perfect bird's eye view of Orofin, in places captured in such minute detail that even the patterns of the roof tiles on the tower in the center of the city had been sketched in. The roads were marked clearly, though they did not seem to be named. Even alleyways were shown, and the ruins had been drawn with surprisingly artistic precision, even outside the walls of the Zhentarim quarter, where the city was too wild and monster-infected for a thorough mapping. I studied it, my eyebrows shooting up. "This is very, very good," I breathed in admiration. I paused, leaning my knuckles on either side of the unrolled map, and looked at the boy from beneath half-lowered lids. "Whom did you steal it from?"

Hurt flickered across his face. "I didn't steal them," he insisted. He crossed his arms over his chest and drew himself up almost haughtily. "I drew them myself."

_"You_ did?"

He nodded stoutly. "I did."

"You."

"Yes."

"The nitwit who just walked into the same wall twice earlier today because he, and I quote, "Didn't see that there.""

Uncertainty started to overtake his indignation. "Um. Yes."

I persisted. "And you drew a map."

"Yes."

"A legible one."

His head reared back. "_Legible?" _he huffed, indignant once more_. "_Oh, now that's not fair! You just said that it was very good!"

"Yes, well, that was before I knew that it had been drawn by a moron." I scanned the map, paying no mind to the boy's offended spluttering. "I thought you said you had never been anywhere near here," I remarked to Brown absent-mindedly, as if most of my attention was on the map.

The boy jumped. "No, but…I got copies," he said nervously. He licked his lips. "Of other maps. Ghufran…she let me look at them. And I managed to figure out what they had in common and put it all together." He paused, then added, "From the copies," as if that had not been clear.

He was lying through his teeth. Badly, too. Amazingly badly. He might have gotten away with it had he stopped himself a little earlier, but as with any bad liar, he could not help but embellish, and the more he embellished the weaker his lie became.

_Well, no matter. Let it be for now. _My observation had put him on his guard, and it would be a trial to get anything else out of him until his guard was back down. I was almost certain that he meant me no direct harm, in any case. Either that or he was the best actor I had ever met. No, he wanted something – protection, information, scapegoats, _something_ – but he was no killer.

From the corner of my eye, I observed Ishiko, who was standing silently by.

_Ah. Speaking of killers. _I would be insane to trust Ishiko. She was a killer. I would be better off if she were dead. The princess would be better off, too. Ishiko knew too much and spoke too little.

Of course, that was why I could not kill her. If I killed her now, I would never know what she knew, and what she knew might just end up being useful to me, especially if she had spent enough time among the Zhentarim to know how their tricks.

Besides, I bloody _hated _to give up perfectly good information. It would torture me if I killed her now, I knew. I would be up nights wondering what secrets had died with her.

A memory of Drogan's voice spoke up, dry as the dust he no doubt was by now. _Curiosity killed the cat, boy, _the memory murmured.

I gave a mental shrug. _And satisfaction brought it back, _I countered. _Besides, I have already died once. How bad can a second time be?_

As if on cue, my imagination presented me with a series of horrific scenarios.

_Thank you, brain, _I thought sourly_. Thank you so much for that._

Smothering my imagination in its cradle, I turned to Ishiko. "How familiar are you with the guard movements?" I asked.

She thought for a moment. "Somewhat," she said, after a brief pause. "I've watched them. Enough to avoid them, anyway."

"Excellent. Do they coordinate with each other?"

She mulled over that, too. "Don't seem to," she concluded. "Seems like they get their orders from headquarters. Never seen 'em talking, anyway."

Well, that at least fit in with what I had seen so far. "I see," I said. My finger traced a path along the streets of Orofin, shrunken into miniature and sketched in ink. "Are there any patrols scheduled tonight that will not soon be missed?"

"Maybe. Why?"

I nodded, and reached into one of the inner pockets of my mantle. Metal, warm after several hours spent nestled close to my skin, met my fingers. I pulled it out, turned, and extended a hand to Nadiya. "Do not lose this," I ordered coolly. "You may need it."

Small, calloused fingers hesitantly grazed my palm as she took the object. "What is it?" she asked.

I frowned at the map. "A Zhentarim badge of rank," I replied absently. "I stole it from a guardsman earlier."

The girl's brown eyes narrowed in confusion. "How did you do it?"

I shrugged. "I overwhelmed him with my charm," I said blandly.

Ishiko's eyebrows shot up. "Funny," she said. "Didn't notice you had any."

My grin was dark and quick. "That is only because I have had no occasion to use it on _you_," I said smoothly. Looking up, I gestured at the map. "This building here. Where is it guarded?"

The Kara-Turan leaned forward. "The pyramid?" she asked. She scratched the side of her neck thoughtfully. "Who's there?"

"Scribes. Record-keepers. Mid- to high-level officials. Possibly mages, though I did not feel much power in there. If they were mages, they were not significant."

Ishiko nodded, a spare gesture that was little more than a slight dip of her chin. "If it's officials and small-time wizards, guards'll be outside," she said. "Not in. Zhents trust their own traps. They don't trust guards. Too easy to bribe." Ishiko looked up at me thoughtfully. "Why?"

I smirked, and turned again to the little Bedine, who watched me with an equal mix of wariness and curiosity, the guardsman's badge still nestled in the palm of her open hand. "Tell me, princess," I said. "How good are you at climbing?"


	38. Chapter 38

I led Brown through the night-shadowed city on a chain. He followed mutely, his head down. For once, it seemed, he knew enough not to speak.

Unfamiliar rings weighted my fingers. A pouch bounced against my hip, full of things I preferred not to think about. The unaccustomed weight of heavy boots tugged at my feet. I did not quite know what to make of any of these things, but it was far too late to change them now. All I could do was to keep moving and hope that all went according to plan.

We were alone. I did not know exactly where Xanos and Ishiko were. After talking all the day long, they had settled on a place where the city wall would be lightly guarded. The plan had been for Ishiko to leave after us, in stealth, and find that place to make sure that Brown and I had a safe escape route. Xanos had insisted on going with her. He did not trust her at all. He expected her to betray us to the Zhentarim. I hoped for all of our sakes that he was wrong.

A man passed us – a guard, from his armor and sword and badge. My muscles tensed, both with dread and with effort of not reaching for my scimitar.

My hand twitched. Brown's chain clinked. The boy kept his eyes on the ground.

The man stopped. He looked at the lightning badge that held my cloak closed. Then he held out a hand, insultingly close to my face. "What's your business here?" he asked.

I stared at him. My eyes darted away from his. Panic rose. I knew that I needed to say something. We had even rehearsed it. In the face of his question, however, all words seemed to leave me, and my tongue seemed suddenly seemed as heavy and inert as a boulder.

Behind me, Brown whimpered. "Don't take me to the pens," he begged suddenly. "I'll do anything. Please, mistress-"

His words jarred me out of my blankness. "Be silent," I snapped. Those words, at least, came easily.

"But-"

I gave his chain a jerk. I thought I could keep speaking as long as I looked at him and not the stranger. "Enough."

I felt the strange man's eyes on me a moment longer and dared a quick look. Once again he studied the badge I wore, the one Xanos had stolen. Then he seemed to reach a decision. "Get this prisoner off the streets and move along," he told me curtly. "Curfew is in one bell."

I nodded just as curtly. Then I tugged Brown's chain and stepped around the guard, before he could change his mind. I tried to move as naturally as I could. It was difficult. I felt as stiff as a mummy, and hardly dared to breathe much more than one. I was afraid that if I did, the sound of my own breath and movement would cover the sound of movement from behind.

We walked. No steps followed. I began to relax.

I heard a quavering exhalation. "That was close," Brown said weakly.

I could not help but agree. Shame covered me. I felt like a fool. Why did my tongue never do as I wanted it to, and always at the worst of all possible times? "T-thank you.

I heard his smile in his voice. "You're welcome," he said. Then he added, "Turn right here."

I obeyed. The street we turned into seemed almost deserted. Other guards passed now and again, but those ones paid us no mind, perhaps thinking that two people, one of whom was in chains, were no threat.

The chain jangled behind me, its noise echoing off of the stones around us. Stone floors, stone walls, stone columns – this whole place was nothing but bare dirt and chilly rock, with neither the greenness of plants nor the sinuous sear of desert sand to redeem it.

Eventually, the street opened into a broad place. Buildings loomed up. One was white, shining in the moonlight. It had a strange three-sided shape which made an uneven silhouette against the sky.

I looked around warily, quickly. There was no one in sight. I did not know how long this state of affairs would last. _Best hurry, then_, I thought, and started across the empty space to the three-sided building.

I wanted to run. I forced myself to walk. I had learned very early in my life that running only drew attention and made people wonder what I might have done wrong that I was in such a hurry to escape notice. Granted, my family had always been inclined to assume that I had done something wrong, but I did not think the Zhentarim would be any more forgiving in this regard.

We reached the strangely-shaped building. Its nearest wall slanted up and away from us at an angle like a tent's wall, and then it seemed to reach an apex and turn, bending back towards the ground on the other side.

I looked at the wall. It was rough, but not so much that I felt comfortable climbing it as I was. Bending, I tugged each boot off, one at a time, until I stood barefoot on the gritty stone. Then I handed my boots to Brown. I would not throw them away. They were good leather. "Hold these," I instructed him.

He took them from me hesitantly. "Why?" he wondered.

"Because I cannot climb in them," I said shortly. "They are too big. And too loud." I checked that my scabbard belt was secure, and that the coil of rope I had looped around my belt was secure, also. Then I handed Brown the end of his chain, which he took in his free hand. "Wait here," I whispered, and turned.

Brown's plaintive whine stopped me. "Don't leave me here alone," he pleaded.

I did not understand him. First a quick thinker who had gotten us out of a situation I had not been able to, and now a whining coward? I wanted to slap him for his childishness, and slap him twice for being so childish when it was obvious that he knew how not to be that way when it was necessary. I rested my forehead against the wall. It was cool and rough and gritty against my skin. Part of me wanted to bash my head against it - or better yet, Brown's. I summoned up all of my patience. "I will lower a rope for you as soon as I am up," I said, as kindly as I could. I did not think it was very kind, but at least I had not hit him, which was something."I will not leave you alone for long. I swear."

Then, before I could think better of it – and before Brown could find any more objections - I pulled myself up onto the wall and began to climb.

The ground quickly dwindled. I saw the stars above, and the tops of dead buildings behind, and to my left, the shadowy slice of a deep canal which cut across the city. In every other direction the slanting wall hulked, blocking out the horizon in a seemingly endless expanse of white.

The wall was made of large blocks of white stone, of a kind which I had never seen before. It glowed in the light of the waxing moon. It was quite lovely, in its way, though now much of the stone was crumbling. Fortunately, this made it easier to climb. Where the stone was pitted and broken it offered very good hand and toe holds. In other places blocks that made the wall were damaged or even missing, and twisted metal rods jutted out from where the blocks had been. They offered good hand holds, too, though some wiggled like a loose tooth when I touched them. Those ones I avoided.

While I climbed, I peered around me, trying to see what could be seen. _Xanos said to look for an opening_, I thought. He had said that it would be small, which would make it hard to find. If it _was_ a hole large enough for me to fit in, however, I thought that it would show up very clearly against stone this white. Of course, I would not be much harder to see, but that could not be helped. I would just have to move as little as necessary and hope that if anyone happened to look up, they would mistake me for nothing but a patch of moon's shadow.

I paused, lifting my head as far from the wall as I dared. The wind whistled against the stone and stung my eyes. Squinting, I looked left and right until I finally saw a square patch of darkness against the white stone. It looked promising, and was a short distance up and to the right.

Gingerly, I made my way over until I was close enough to peer inside. It was indeed a hole, but there was nothing in it. Or rather, if there was anything there, I could not see it. It was too dark. I wished I had thought to bring a torch, but a lit torch would have attracted unwanted eyes, so perhaps it was better not to have one.

I braced myself, twisted my arm down and drew my scimitar a little at a time. I had little space to do it in and did not want to slice my own nose off. Once the sword was free, I reached into the hole with it, because only a fool reached into dark holes with her bare hands.

Everything my blade touched was as still and hard as stone. Nothing seemed to be alive in there. I ran the tip of my sword all along the walls of the tunnel. It scraped through a layer of grit, but the walls were otherwise smooth. The bottom wall slanted in and down. _How deep does it go? _I wondered_. _Xanos had not known the answer. Softly, so that I did not make too much noise, I tapped my blade against the side of the shaft. The tapping echoed for quite some time. The shaft went in deep, then. Perhaps it even led into the heart of the pyramid, as Xanos had suggested it might. I supposed that I would soon find out.

Unfortunately, the walls of the passage were so smooth that there were no places where I could anchor my rope, so I sheathed my sword again, backtracked slightly to the nearest broken-off bit of metal that stuck out from the wall, and tied the rope to that.

The rope jerked. Then it began to tug and sway under someone's weight. I hoped that someone was Brown. I did not like to think that he might betray us to the Zhentarim. I did not think he would – he was too afraid of them – but he was a person with secrets. So was Ishiko. So was Xanos. I was surrounded by secrets, and lies, and I did not know what to make of any of it, except that I both wished the secrets to be done with and knew that there was very little I could do to force them out. Threats would only make Xanos laugh, Ishiko kill, and Brown chatter so much and so confusingly that I would forget why I had threatened him in the first place.

Eventually, Brown's head appeared. "I'm here," he called. I did not see why he felt the need to state the obvious, but then, such seemed to be his way. He made his way up the rope far too slowly for my comfort. When he reached me, he clung to the wall very nervously. "What now?" he asked.

I thought we had gone over this. "Now I go in," I answered impatiently. I took the rope from him, gesturing with the end of it as I spoke. "You will wait here until I come back out."

The boy blanched. "Again?" His voice had taken on a pronounced whine.

Perhaps if I threw him off the building the guards would all go to look at him and I would not have to worry about them. "If we both go in, we double the risk of being discovered," I told him. Besides, I did not want his clumsy feet involved in this. "Be brave. I will be back as soon as I have what we need. Then we will think of what distraction to make so the guards will not notice us slipping through the gate."

He stared at me for a moment. Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "All right," he said. "I…I'll try to be be brave." His voice turned wistful. "Though I wish I could be half as brave as you."

Brave? I was so full of fear that I thought I might burst. "That is foolishness," I said dismissively. "I am not brave."

"You _are_," he insisted. "How do you do it? How do you make yourself fight?"

_Well, it is either that or let everyone I ever loved die or be enslaved, so I cannot see that I have much of a choice_, I thought, but I did not say it. I tried to think of another, better answer, since I did not think he would let me go without it. "I think of my ancestors," I said eventually. "They were great men and women. I will not shame them by being less."

Slowly, he nodded. "Your ancestors," he echoed. "Right. I think I can do that. Think of my ancestors, that is. Not yours. I haven't the foggiest idea who your ancestors were." He flashed me an ingratiating smile. "No offense. I'm sure they were very nice people."

If we did not get this over with soon I thought I would scream. "None taken. Now-"

Brown interrupted me. "Ancestors," he mused softly. "You know, Mother told me all sorts of stories about mine. They always seemed so much cleverer than me. Cleverer and kinder and wiser." Abruptly, he laughed. "Of course, they weren't very big or strong or brave, even in the stories," he admitted frankly. "That's why I admire you, Nadiya. You're not very big, either, but you're still brave. It's hard to be brave when you're so little."

"Thank you." _I think_. At least he had not called me fat.

"But even if we're not the biggest or the strongest," Brown went on thoughtfully. "We're strong enough. Aren't we? We must be. And if we don't fight the Zhentarim, they'll just keep hurting people. Mother knew that. She tried to stop it. If she saw me now…" He trailed off and took a long, trembling breath. "All right," he said then. "I'll wait here and keep watch. You go."

I tried to give him a smile. It felt strained and strange on my face, as smiles usually did to me, but I felt that I owed him a smile for finding his backbone. "I will be back," I whispered again, and patted his arm. Glancing over my shoulder, I looked up at Elah. She was still and cool and quiet, with a little less than half her face in shadow. I hoped that this was not the last time I would see her.

Then, turning, I pulled myself over the edge and into the darkness, dragging the rope behind me.

The shaft was close and dark and stifling, and I quickly discovered that I could not crawl through it on my hands and knees. The ceiling was too low for that, and though the shaft was sloped, it was not sloped enough for me to let my own weight pull me through. I was forced to slither forward on my belly, much like a snake, only I was no snake and could only move by pushing against the bottom of the tunnel with my toes while I pulled myself forward with my fingers.

It was not easy. I had torn three of my nails to the quick before I figured out that I should use the pads of my fingers instead, like one of those sticky-toed lizards that had climbed the face of the wadi back home. Then the going was easier, or at least less painful.

The shaft was close and dark and stifling, and grew more and more so as I descended. What little trickles of light Elah shed soon vanished, leaving me blind.

My shoulders brushed the sides of the shaft. My elbows brushed hard against the stone, and began to sting as the skin rubbed raw through my thin linen sleeves. Sweat and blood from my hand slicked the hempen rope, and several times I was forced to stop and switch hands.

Time passed – too much of it for my liking. _How far have I gone?_ I could not tell. My heart seemed to fill the whole space, booming like a drum.

At a certain point, I felt a resistance on the rope I held. It would no longer come with me when I tugged. I realized that I had no more slack in it, and stopped, dismayed. I had reached the end of the rope and still had not reached the end of the tunnel. I wondered if I should go back, but even as I did so, I chided myself for a fool. If I turned back, I would only waste time, and for what? There was no guarantee that I would be able to find another entrance, or that it would be any better than this one. I would have to press ahead and hope for the best.

Relinquishing the rope, I crawled ahead through the stifling darkness. Sweat trickled down my face and slid over my lips. My tongue darted out, running along my upper lip. It tasted of salt and copper and dust. My fingertips burned like fire. My hands cramped and began to shake with effort, as did my calves and toes.

I realized that, somewhere beneath the fear, I felt a strange, hot sense of excitement and relief. I was covered in grime and sweat, but at least here I was not being forced to listen to anyone's tedious blathering. I was not sitting idle in boredom and worry. There were no doubts as to who were my enemies and what I had to do. There was only the ache of my straining muscles, the thud of my heart, the stale air in my lungs, the sweat trickling down my cheeks, and a clear goal fixed in my mind.

_I must be out of my mind_, I thought, and crawled ahead, fighting a mad grin.

Eventually I began to see more than thick, blank blackness before my eyes. The light grew, and the some gray impressions of shape began to appear in the murk around me.

Soon, the light grew into a square. It showed a blank stone wall. I had finally reached the end of the tunnel.

I forced myself to stop well short of the exit and listen for movement outside. I heard nothing. That either meant that there was no one there, or that someone was there and waiting very, very quietly for me to come out.

_Blood of al-Rashid_, I reminded myself nervously, took a breath, and wriggled forward to the end of the shaft. Cautiously, I poked my head out. I saw a gray hall lit with still white lights. It stretched to the left and right. According to Xanos, the laertis had had its quarters near the tip of the pyramid that lay towards the canal. I had entered the tunnel with my left shoulder to the canal. Therefore, assuming the tunnel had not turned somewhere along its length, I would find my goal if I went to the left.

Below me, a smooth wall led to a stone floor that lay unsettlingly far from where I was. The distance between the mouth of the tunnel and the floor was more than my height. It may have been close to twice that. If I tried to climb out head first, I was likely to fall and break my neck.

_Hell's Bells. _Xanos had not mentioned this part. Had he not known, or had the great gangling goat banged his head on the ceiling one too many times and forgotten how much shorter I was than he? _Hammad was right_, I thought irritably. _Some people should have their legs cut off at the knee._

I looked all around me, my mind racing furiously. There was blank wall in most directions, but there was a light coming from above me – there. I twisted my head around as far as I could to look. One of those eerie white lights glowed in a metal bracket which had been fixed to the wall. thought that if I could wriggle around until I lay belly-up and get a grip on the metal bracket, I would be able to pull my legs out of the tunnel and drop down from there. It might still hurt, but it would hurt less than falling on my head.

I twisted and reached out. My fingers met metal. I held on to the bracket and half-pulled, half-pushed myself out of the tunnel until I was in a strange sort of crouch with my knees tucked up near my shoulders and my feet braced against the lip of the tunnel. My arms trembled. Pulling myself through a downward-sloping tunnel had been surprisingly exhausting.

I paused, taking stock. I was now partially out of the tunnel, only – now that I thought of it – I did not know how to climb down from here. If I let go of the light's holder, I thought I would fall over backwards, which would not be good.

Gingerly, I lowered my left foot until my thigh and shin was stretched along the wall and I had my weight braced only on my right foot.

The holder creaked, but it held my weight. That was reassuring. I decided to risk the other foot.

As soon as I lowered my right foot, the metal bracket gave a jerk. Then it came loose from the wall.

The wall went by so quickly that I barely had time to notice that it was moving before I hit the ground.

The bracket dropped with a clatter, and I hit the stone floor backside-first. The impact seemed to travel all the way up my spine to my jaw, which snapped shut so hard that I saw spots. Somewhere along the line I bit my own lip hard enough to split it.

When the spots cleared, I tried to move. Pain stopped me. A bit of Bedine humor hissed out between my teeth. I should have known better than to trust my weight to anything that small. On the other hand, I thought my backside must have absorbed most of the impact. I thought my backside could have absorbed a fall from the top of a canyon without much trouble. It was one of its very few advantages.

After a few aborted attempts, I managed to stagger to my feet. Wiping my bloody lip with the back of my sleeve, I took stock. I was in a hallway lined with doors. It stretched in both directions. At my feet, the fallen light lay extinguished. The others still glowed. Nothing moved. I supposed that meant that I was truly alone. After all the noise I had made coming down, if anyone had been here, they would surely have come to find me.

Nevertheless, I did not think it was wise to linger. On impulse, I picked up the bracket and threw it into the tunnel overhead so that at least the evidence of my accident would not be so obvious. Then I started down the hall, walking on the balls of my feet so that I would be as quiet as possible.

The floor was very cold, and the only light came from those eerie white witchlights. I liked the ones Xanos had made better. They had been colorful and ever-changing, while these were harsh, unflickering blue-white spheres that made me shiver.

I passed many doors, though they seemed very flimsy and useless doors to me. They were carved so elaborately that I thought a child could have broken any one of them with a kick. What was the point of a door if it did not keep intruders out? It made no sense. In any case, none of them matched his description. I moved on.

I reached another intersection. This one went four ways. After a pause, I continued straight. Soon after, the hallway reached a rightward bend. Nervously, I followed it to another intersection. This one turned left and right. I stopped, chewing on my lip. Then, because taking the left fork had seemed like a good idea before and because I had no better ideas, I turned left again.

Eventually, the hall reached an end, which did match with what Xanos had said. Two doors stood on either side of me, which also matched what he had said. One door had strange, hairy-looking creatures on it, none of them birds. The other, however, was patterned with little birds perched in thorn bushes. I felt a thrill of triumph. The description matched. I had found the right door.

I crept closer and peeked through. The room beyond was dark. I could make out very little of what lay beyond the door, but Xanos had described this door very clearly.

Unsure of what to do, I tried inspecting the door more closely. There was a brass handle and a small lock. I did not see the point of locking such a flimsy door, but then, there were many things about this place which made no sense, so what was one more?

I hesitated. The weight of the rings on my right hand seemed set to drag my hand to the ground, they suddenly seemed so heavy to me. I had been trying very hard to ignore them. I had no doubt that they were both magical. Xanos had even said as much when he had given it to me.

The entire scene had been startling from first to last. First he had reached beneath the collar of the shirt he wore beneath his mantle and pulled out the necklace I now carried in the pouch at my hip. I had caught a glimpse of the chains of other necklaces all tangled together around his neck before he had straightened his collar and hidden them from view. Then he had tugged two of the rings from his fingers and dropped them into my hand along with a tiny, stoppered vial and a series of instructions.

I had been too startled to protest. Between the rings and the earrings and the necklaces, the man wore more jewelry than most women I had known. It was far too bizarre. I had believed at first that he adorned himself so out of vanity. Now…well, now I did not know what to believe, but I was beginning to suspect that there was far more to his choice of adornments than simple vanity.

The ring on my thumb was a thick band of some dull, forged metal. One side of it bore a ram's head, complete with two twisting horns whose tips met beneath the ram's chin. Xanos had said that it would open things, though he had not specified what it would open, nor how it would open them. The ring on my forefinger was a thin circle of red gold with a tiny garnet, barely more than a chip, set into it. Of all things, he had said it would give light. All I had to do was blow on the gem. I did not see how such a tiny stone could shed any light, but he had seemed very certain that it would. Both of the rings had seemed far too large for me, coming as they did from the half-orc's huge hands. It had therefore been unsettling in the extreme when I had slipped the rings onto my fingers and each one had fit as if it had been made to my size.

My skin crawled at the memory. I wanted to claw the rings from my hands. I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath. _You wanted the help of a mage, _I reminded myself. And now, spirits save me, I had it, and it came in the form of a magic ring.

Gingerly, I reached my right hand towards the door. For a long moment, nothing happened. I felt relieved. I also felt strangely disappointed. Had Xanos lied? Or was I doing something wrong?

Then, just as I was ready to give up and take my hand away, I felt the ring on my thumb give a buzz like a fly trapped in a bottle.

Beneath my outstretched hand, the lock clicked and the door's latch, no longer locked in place, unlatched.

The door creaked open a finger's width and then stopped, showing a sliver of the dark room beyond.

I stood frozen for a moment longer. Then a shudder ran through me – of disgust or horror or terror I did not know - and before I could think better of it I had torn the ring from my finger and flung it across the hallway. It hit the opposite wall with a metallic clatter, bounced, and rolled to a stop right in the middle of the floor.

My back pressed to the wall and my arms crossed over my heaving stomach, I stared down at the ring, hardly daring to move. I would have preferred to stare at a live snake. At least I knew what to do with snakes. Snakes had heads to chop off, but I could not kill a ring. It was not even alive, only when it had quivered on my finger, it had seemed so close to living that I was not certain _what_ to call it.

Gradually, the shudders diminished and my stomach unclenched. My head cleared and I realized that I was standing in the hallway, exposed, while I watched a ring. Which just sat there. Doing nothing. Presumably it would continue to do so until I put it near another lock in need of unlocking.

For the second time in one evening, I felt like an utter fool.

Warily, I looked down the hall. I was still, apparently, alone. Just as warily, I knelt and retrieved the ring. It was cool and heavy and inert in my hand. I made to slip it back onto my finger, then stopped, my skin crawling as another shudder rippled through me. I did not want to wear this evil thing. I did not even want to touch it. It was magic. The spirits only knew what it would do to me.

_This is foolishness_, I told myself sternly. Still, I could not move. _If Xanos could see me now, he would surely mock me_. He would, for once, be right to do so. I had known what he was when I laid the geas on him. If I had not wanted to be near magic, I should not have tied a sorcerer to me.

I swallowed, forcing down a wave of nausea. Then, abruptly, I jammed the ring onto my finger and stood. Tears prickled my eyes. _Foolishness. _I wanted to throw up. _Also foolishness. _I tried to ignore both feelings. Zebah needed me to ignore them.

I reached for the door handle. Again, I stopped. I did not know what had made me stop, at first. Then I caught a glimmer of metal and began to piece facts together from instinct. The door had opened slightly, but only slightly, and there was a thin metal wire leading from the latch.

My eyes traced the wire. It ran from the latch, up the inner side of the door's frame, and to a small metal plate in the upper corner of the frame. The plate had holes in it. Their edges were corroded.

Xanos had warned me that there might be traps. I thought that I might just have found one. I stared up at it. Slowly, very slowly, I took my hand away from the door. I tried not to breathe. Breathing was far too risky. I did not like the look of those holes.

_Think_, I told myself, though that was easier said than done. Between one thing and another, this thing had already taken too long. Time was bleeding away from me.

I studied the wire. It was very thin. A sharp enough blade would cut it, but what would happen if I tugged it? Well, that was a silly question – something that could corrode metal would come out of those holes, obviously. If I was standing nearby, it would probably spew all over me.

I forced myself to think. I needed something that was sharp, but also long, so that I could reach the door without…

The thought trailed off. I cursed myself for an idiot. Again.

Sidestepping so that my back was to the wall again, just next to the door, I drew my scimitar. Leaning over just enough so that I could see the wire, I carefully slid the tip of the blade, sharp-side-up, beneath it. Then I leaned away, firmed my grip, and gave the sword a short, sharp upward yank.

I felt a moment's resistance, and then a snap as the wire gave way. Something clicked. An acrid smell rose. A few droplets of something rained past my right hand. One of them hit me. The pain was instant, sharp, and searing. I hissed. My hand opened reflexively. To my shame, I dropped my weapon, though the shame was a distant thing compared to the pain. I cradled my injured hand in my good one. There was a bright red dot of burned skin on the fleshy bridge between forefinger and thumb.

In a few instants, it was all over but for the lingering pain in my hand and a few smoking black spots on the floor. Still cradling my injured hand, I bent cautiously to pick up my sword in my off hand. It felt awkward. I flexed the burned hand – the pain was receding, though there was still that pinpoint of pain – and passed my hilt to that hand.

Taking a breath, I looked at the door again. The wire was cut and dangling loosely. Some acid had dripped onto the door itself. I had gotten the door open, but in doing so I had left clear signs of my presence. If time had been bleeding away from me before, now it was hemorrhaging.

Warily, I pushed the door open and crept into the dark room.

The room was not just dark. It was pitch black. It seemed windowless. I stopped, my heart sinking. I was beginning to understand why Xanos had given me the second ring.

I stared into the darkness, feeling a hopeless resignation steal over me. Then, grimly, I raised my hand, pursed my lips, and blew a soft breath over the garnet ring.

This time the response was almost instantaneous. A soft bloom of red light gathered on my finger, then strengthened and grew until the room was bathed in a steady crimson glow, with my finger at the light's heart.

I looked around. The light was strangely pretty. It reminded me of the lights Zebah used to make, and the ones Xanos had made. Perhaps this is not so bad, I thought, and took stock. The walls were very strangely shaped. There were not four of them, as one might expect, but six or seven, all at odd angles to one another. Where the walls were more or less straight, trunks and shelves stood against them. A large desk faced the door, flanked by a table which bore a long linen runner and a single small chest.

A surge of excitement rushed down to my fingertips and flushed my face to my hairline. That was the chest. It was as Xanos had described it. I only had to unlock it, find the book, and then…well, then I would have to find a way out, since I was not certain I could climb back into the tunnel that had brought me in here. But that was a problem for later. Now I needed to get that chest open.

I turned the ram-headed ring on my finger and crossed the room, setting my feet down carefully and feeling for anything that did not seem to belong. When I reached the chest, I held my right hand out over it, still holding my scimitar. If the ring was magic, I reasoned that it would work even if I was holding something else, and after that acid trap I did not particularly want to be without a weapon in hand.

There was that pause again before anything happened, and then the buzz of the ring and the click of the chest's lock unlocking. It was a little less unnerving this time, though still unpleasant.

The need to hurry pressed down on me. Without thinking, I reached out with my left hand, unlatched the trunk, and flipped its lid up.

Something clicked and flashed. A beam of _something_, like a lance of utter dark surrounded by a sickly purple halo that was not so much light as it was unlight, shot out from the trunk and directly, it seemed, through me.

It all happened so quickly. A terrible cold washed through me, so cold it took my breath away. Suddenly, I felt weak, so weak that I could hardly stand. I thought I felt my heart stutter and begin to race, far too fast. Blackness closed in at the edges of my vision.

Distantly, I was aware that my arm was falling, that my weakening muscles could no longer hold up the weight of my sword. Some part of me knew that I should try to stop that from happening, but I could not seem to put the thought to action. I wondered if this was what drowning felt like.  
The last of my strength left me. My arm dropped. So did my sword, the blade passing through the beam of unlight as it fell…

…and just like that, the beam vanished.

Al-Rashid's scimitar fell to the floor. I followed, dropping heavily to my knees and then to my hands and knees, gulping for breath as my heart slowed from its wild gallop.

I tried to think. _What just happened? _A trap. It must have been a trap, like the door. But then it had stopped. Why had it stopped? I remembered my sword falling…falling _through_ the thing that had come out of the chest. Something had happened then. It was as if al-Rashid's blade had cut the light in half, killed it, but how could a sword kill a _light_?

My head spun. I felt as weak as a newborn kitten. I needed to get up. I was not certain if I could. _Up, _I told myself grimly and only half-coherently. _Up, you stupid girl. _I managed to reach one hand up to the table. I took hold of my sword with the other. _Up, _I thought, and half-pulled, half-pushed myself to my knees. I had to stop there, swaying, to catch my breath and fight off another wave of dizziness, before hauling myself the rest of the way to my feet.

Panting, I managed to turn my head enough to look at the chest. That chest – that _damned_ chest – sat on the table as innocently as any other chest. I wanted to bash it in with something heavy. I thought that I would have, if I had had enough strength to do it. Then I thought I would hit myself. Xanos had warned me that there might be traps. In my haste, I had not been thinking. That made me three times a fool in one night.

Tears of frustration and embarrassment pricked my eyes. I blinked them away and turned to the trunk. There were books and papers piled in it. On top was a plain, leather-bound book, brown and nondescript. It looked right. I took it and slipped it into my belt pouch, which sagged under its weight.

Hurriedly, I closed the chest, blew on the glowing red ring again, found that this did not stop it from glowing, removed it from my finger, found that this did, and finally left the room. Dawn would be coming soon. I needed to move. With two of his traps sprung and his book gone, the laertis would know instantly that he had been robbed. I did not want to be here when he found that out.

I could not go back the way I had come. The tunnel entrance was too high, the wall below it too smooth. That much I was sure of. I was also sure that there had to be a way out. Xanos had gotten in through a normal door. The Zhentarim most likely did, as well. I only had to find it. As I recalled, the sorcerer had said that a straight hall had led him in to the lizard man's room. Logically, then, if I followed this hall away, I would find the exit.

I crept down the hall, growing more and more nervous with each step. My belt pouch tugged at my hip. The vial in it now seemed almost heavier than the rings had been. I wished that Xanos had not though to give me these things. They were all turning out to be useful. The problem was that I had no desire to use them. The other problem was that I did not seem to have any choice.

Grimacing, I stopped and reached for the pouch. I drew out the tiny, stoppered vial. It was full of a liquid that almost seemed clear, except that when I swirled it, little flashes of color appeared.

I stared at the vial. Then, before I could lose my nerve, I uncorked it, raised it to my lips, tilted my head back, and swallowed its contents in one gulp. I nearly spewed everything back up a split second later. The potion was icy and viscous and slimy and seemed to slide down my throat in one solid, squishy clump. I had to swallow it all back down, together with a mouthful of bile, where it seemed to form a solid mass in my stomach.

Aside from disgust, I found that I felt nothing. At first I thought that this meant nothing had happened. Then looked down and found that I could not see my hands.

Disbelief came first. I blinked. My hands remained stubbornly…not there. I could feel them. They were quite definitely still there. But I could not see them.

It was a good thing that Xanos had warned me about this, too. Else I might have run through the halls screaming the instant I saw my hands vanish. I thought I still might. Why had the spirits not sent me a good, solid warrior instead of a mage who gave me magical things that did things that made me want to vomit, or scream, or possibly do both at once?

I swallowed again, hard. My hands shook. I could not tell if it was from the lingering weakness of whatever trap had been on that chest or if it was from sheer nerves.

Taking a deep breath, I carried on down the hall, peeking in each door before I passed it. Most were dark. One, to my surprise, was dimly lit. Strange, fleshy noises were coming from within. I slowed, pressed myself against the wall, and peered in.

Through the latticework of the door, I saw a man sitting in a chair and a woman kneeling in front of him. He had an expression on his face that was almost but not quite one of pain. I could not see the woman's face. Her head was moving oddly, and her face was away from me, nearly buried in his lap, only I could not think of why…

Realization struck me right as the blush did. I jerked away so quickly that I nearly toppled. Both of my hands flew to cover my mouth. It was no wonder they had not heard me. _Oh sweet spirits_, I thought. Mortification suffused me, as hot as steam. _Oh sweet spirits. I did not just see that. _Trying to close me ears to the suddenly lurid noises, I staggered on.

I was relieved beyond belief when I finally felt the wind stir on my face, and distant noises that hinted at the outside world. I would be glad to be out of this place and all of the things I had seen in it. Especially some things. Things which I would, I decided, tell none of the others about. The trap was too embarrassing, and the other…thing…was even more so. The afterimage of what I had seen still flashed across the insides of my eyelids every time I closed my eyes. I wished I could unsee it. Failing that, I hoped that if I ever again heard such noises I would have the sense not to look to see what was causing them.

I was nearly to the exit when I saw something move beyond it. I stopped.

Chain mail jingled. A shape loomed – human, helmeted, cloaked. A guard. He blocked the door almost entirely. At the sight of him, I came very close to cursing.

I sank back against the wall, thinking hard. I needed that guard away from the exit if I wanted to get through it. I did not know if I would be able to kill him, but even if I could, I would then have a corpse to worry about. As far as evidence of wrongdoing went, a broken lock and a few acid burns were one thing, but a dead body was something else entirely.

I fingered my belt pouch, feeling the necklace within it shift and slither. Xanos had been almost eerily prescient about what I would need. The necklace had been his last gift, if one could call it a gift.

The necklace's chain had snaked across his fingers, bright gold to his greenish-gray. Little beads had dangled all along its length. "When you are in need of a distraction, break off a bead." He had tapped one of the little red-gold beads with his forefinger. "Then throw it as far as you can."

I had taken it from him as unquestioningly as the other things, more from bewilderment than any conviction that I should do such a thing. "Why?" I had asked.

"Because it will explode whenever and wherever it lands," had been his answer.

Now, I thought I knew why he had given it to me. It could be a weapon, but I thought it might also be a good distraction. If I could throw it so that it exploded somewhere beyond the door, surely the guard would not stay where he was. Sane men did not watch things explode without going to see what was happening. Therefore, if I could get close enough to the door to throw a bead past him without catching his notice, I might be able to get him away from the door without having to kill him.

Taking a deep breath, I fumbled the necklace out of the pouch. In the dark, I felt along its length. The gold was heavy, smooth, and surprisingly warm. Some of its beads were missing. Running my finger past those places was like running one's tongue over the gap where a lost tooth had been. I held it all very carefully. I did not want to break off a bead and find the entire thing exploding in my hand.

The guard was looking away from me when I tiptoed closer. He seemed to be looking for outside threats, not inside threats. That was good.

Carefully, I snapped a bead from the necklace. It was surprising, how easy it was to do. Something tingled in my fingers when the bead came free. This time, my skin barely crawled at all.

Then I threw the bead past the guard and out into the night. That was easy, too.

I neither heard nor saw the bead land. Land it must have, though, because after a long and breathless pause, something outside of the pyramid exploded in great, roaring billows of red and orange and yellow.

The guard's head snapped around. I heard him curse, though I did not quite hear what he said. He dropped his spear and took off running.

I waited until his footsteps had fated. Then I slipped out of the door. I picked up his spear as I went. You never knew when you might need a spear, especially in a place like this.

The sky outside was dark and starless. Clouds covered the face of the moon. Under their shadow, I rounded the side of the pyramid, encountered a moment of dismay when I realized that while my new spear was very nice and useful I would not be able to climb a wall with it in my hand, tucked the weapon into some rubble in the hopes that it would still be there when I came back for it, and began to climb.

The ground went away more quickly this time. I knew how to handle the climb, and I was in a rush, besides. Still, I slowed as I neared the top. I saw nothing, though it was dark enough that this came as no surprise. I decided to risk speaking. "Are you there?" I whispered hoarsely.

Brown's voice floated down to me almost immediately. "Nadiya! Yes. Yes, I'm here," he said. He sounded breathless and shaken. "What happened? I can't see you. Are you invisible? Why are you down there? What was that explosion? I saw-"

I cut him off. "I could not go back through the tunnel," I explained tersely. "I made the explosion to pull the guard away so I could get past him. Come quickly. I do not think-" The sound of running footsteps, coming back to the pyramid, cut through my words. I lowered my voice to a furious hiss. Time, I suspected, had just run out. "Hell's _Bells_."

More guards were gathering, from the sounds of it and the growing circle of torchlight below. One voice came out of the jumble of voices. "It came from somewhere around here," he called. I thought it was my guard. In hindsight, I should have thrown that bead at him instead of past him. A corpse would have caused me less trouble than this. "You, search inside. You and you, come with me." Below, footsteps went in all directions. "All of you, spread out. I want to know where that fireball came from."

Brown's voice was hushed and anxious. "What now?"

I started to chew my lower lip, then stopped as soon as the pain reminded me that I had split it. "We need another distraction," I muttered. I looked up hopefully. "Any ideas?" I had used up all of mine.

He was silent for so long that I began to wonder whether he was still there. Then, just as I was about to lose my patience, he spoke. "Was that a necklace of fireballs you used?" he asked.

I stared up at him blankly. "Was it?" I asked. I had no idea. I supposed it might have been. It _had_ made a great big ball of fire, that much was true.

Brown confirmed my thoughts, though he sounded very distracted. He sounded almost as if he was talking to himself. "I think it is. At least, that's what it looked like. Gods only know why a sorcerer…well, that's not important." His voice changed. He seemed to be talking to me again. "Give it here."

I reached for my belt pouch. Then I hesitated. "Why?" I asked warily.

He muttered something that I did not understand. Then, patiently, he said, "I want you to give me that necklace and climb back down. Please." I heard him take a deep, shaking breath. "Just…trust me. All right? Can't you do that?"

I did not know if I trusted him. I wanted to, but what I wanted to be true and what was actually true were not necessarily one and the same. "What? Why?" Another thought occurred to me. I was ashamed that it had not come to me earlier. "And what about you? What will you do?"

He laughed. His voice shook. "Don't worry about me," he said. I thought he must have been trying to sound confident, but he was failing. "Just…just you go."

He did not sound like someone with a plan. He sounded like a young boy contemplating something terrifying. "Why?" I insisted. "What are you going to do?"

"Give them distractions to look at," he answered. "The same way you did."

I did not like the idea of him going off alone, throwing fireballs every which way. "Then we can both do it," I said.

My eyes were beginning to adjust to the night, enough to see him above me, shaking his head. "No, we can't," he argued immediately. "There are two of us and only one necklace."

I started chewing my lower lip again. Again, I winced and stopped. "Then I will do it," I said.

He shook his head a second time. "You can't. You're still invisible, but they'll catch you if you keep using that thing."

I sensed that I was losing the argument. I did not know _how_ I was losing this ridiculous argument, but I was. "Brown, you do not need to do this-"

He cut me off with surprising force. "Yes," he said. "I do." His voice softened. "While you were in there, I…I've been thinking about what you said. About your ancestors. And mine. You're right. I should be more like them. I should think of what they'd do if their friends were in trouble."

That brought me up short. "Why?" I asked haltingly. "What would they do?"

He answered almost immediately. "G-get them out," he said. His voice broke for a moment, just a point, squeaking up into a higher register of pure fear. Then it steadied. I saw the silhouette of his head move, looking up at the sky briefly, though I did not know what he was looking at. A thick cover of clouds obscured the moon and most of the stars. "My mother fought the Zhentarim, you know," he added, almost conversationally. Whatever he saw in the sky, it seemed to have calmed him. "She tried to protect the caravans that came through our area. That's why the Zhentarim killed her. Well…one of the reasons, anyway."

There was pain in his voice. Against my better judgement, my heart twisted in sympathy. I knew what it was like to lose a parent. Still, I tried to marshal one last argument. "That does not mean you should follow her into death," I said.

He snorted another unsteady laugh. "I know," he said. "I know. You think I want to?" He laughed again, ruefully. "Gods." Then he sighed. "Don't worry about me," he added. "I'll catch up to you. I can move fast when I have to."

I scowled. "So can I," I said indignantly.

I heard the smile in his voice. It sounded almost condescending. If it were not also kind, I would have knocked him off the pyramid for it. "I know," he said. Then, "Climb down, Nadiya. And once you're down…" He trailed off.

I chewed my lower lip. This time, nervousness overcame the pain. "What?"

"Don't look left," he told me. "Don't look right. Don't look up." He took a deep breath. "Just…put your head down and run as fast as you can. Okay?"

I looked up at his shadowed silhouette, clinging to the wall above me. "You are sure that you want to do this?" I asked, one last time.

"No," he answered frankly. "But I'm doing it anyway." I heard a scrape as he began to move. "Now, give me that necklace and get going. It won't be long until dawn."

I did as he asked, wondering as I did so whether I was making a very big mistake.

The first flare-up of fire came as I was climbing back down the wall. It bloomed towards the canals. Brown must have thrown it from the very top of the pyramid to reach that far. Men shouted and began to run towards it.

I half-climbed, half-slipped the rest of the way down. My spear was where I had left it. I picked it up hurriedly, looked around to be sure that the guards had all gone to see what the fire was about, and trotted around the pyramid.

Another boom and another orange flare lit up the sky. It was further to the west this time, much further. I stopped and stared. Brown had not been lying when he had said that he could move fast when he needed to, though I did not know how that was possible for such a clumsy boy. He must have climbed down faster than I, and then run the rest of the way.

A third boom lit up the night, reflecting off of the low ceiling of clouds. For just a moment, their underbellies turned from slate blue to orange.

The third fireball seemed to have raised even more of a commotion than the last. Even as I crept from the shadow of one building to another, I heard and saw men were running, shouting, heading towards the fires in a flood.

I hesitated, looking over my shoulder at the flickering orange lights. I hoped Brown knew what he was doing. I hoped that he would be safe. He was a clumsy, stupid boy, but I found that I did not want him to die.

_Spirits watch over him,_ I prayed. The spirits had answered my prayers once, after all. Perhaps they might answer again.

Then - invisible, alone, and unnoticed - I ran.


	39. Chapter 39

Xanos and Ishiko were waiting for me close to a mile past the northern gate, next to a crumbling wall that was overgrown with dead brown vines.

The sorcerer strode out briskly to meet me, his robes swirling about his legs. He gave me a searching look, a quick up-and-down glance before his eyes returned to my face, as yellow and inscrutable as a cat's. "You look terrible," he greeted me without preamble.

_This_ was his way of saying hello? I limped towards him, yanking the little leather-bound book out of my bag. "I found your book," I growled, and held it out to him. He was lucky that I did not throw it at his face.

He took the book from my hands and slid it into one of his many hidden pockets. His eyes met mine for a moment. He blinked. "Ah...thank you," he said abruptly. Perhaps he had noticed my anger, or perhaps he had simply recollected what little manners his mother had taught him. He nodded towards my foot. "What happened?" he asked.

My foot throbbed. I could not see my own tracks, but I was certain they would be bloody. "Broken glass," I said. "I think." I had not stopped to look. I had been in too much of a hurry.

He made a noise like a bitten-off growl. He knelt, gesturing for me to raise my foot. "Idiot," he muttered. "Who in their right mind runs around a Netherese ruin in their bare feet?"

Too surprised by his actions to object to them, I lifted my foot and allowed him to inspect it. "Brown has my boots," I explained.

His hand was very big. It engulfed my foot as he tilted it this way and that. "And why is that?" he asked, without lifting his eyes from his inspection.

I teetered awkwardly on one foot, feeling tremendously self-conscious and embarrassed. Not only did I feel half-dressed, but after what they had run through that night, my feet were now dirty and covered in blood. I did not particularly feel like having anyone look at them. The sorcerer, however, did not seem inclined to relinquish the foot he had, and I did not know quite how to ask him to let go in a way that would not make this whole thing even more embarrassing. So I teetered. "I gave them to him," I said. My voice trailed off. The choice had made perfect sense at the time. Hearing myself explain it, however, made it suddenly sound less sensible. I rallied. "They made too much noise," I said stiffly. "I do not know why you insisted on getting them."

Xanos finally looked up. He gave my foot a shake, making me wobble again. "This is why," he said bluntly. Then he added, "Can you walk?"

I blinked at him owlishly. "Y…yes," I said after a moment's hesitation. From the pain in my foot, I did not think I could walk very far, but I was the blood of al-Rashid, and I would not snivel about a little pain in front of the one who had killed Kel-Garas. I also wished that the one who killed Kel-Garas would put my foot down. I felt as if I was about to topple over backwards every time he moved his hand. "Stop that," I snapped irritably.

Ishiko spoke up. She was little more than a spindly, spiderlike shadow by the wall. "Where's the boy?" she asked.

At that, my cheeks flushed. "I…do not know," I said awkwardly.

Abruptly, Xanos let go of my foot. "You do not_ what_?" he asked incredulously. He stood, brushing off his hands fastidiously. "Tell me I did not hear that right," he went on, his voice despairing. "Please, humor Xanos. Lie to me if you must. It has been a trying tenday. I would like to hear some good news for a change."

I scowled, lowering my foot. It was throbbing very badly. I hoped we would be able to stop so that I could bandage it. "He took the necklace and made fireballs to distract the guards' attention while I ran," I said defensively. "He said he would follow when he was done."

Xanos stared at me. "And you believed him?"

I flushed again. My voice, despite my best efforts, became weak and uncertain. "Y-yes."

He stared at me a moment longer. Then he snorted and turned away. "Then you are a fool."

I glared at his back. My uncertainty melted away in the face of my anger. "_You _are the fool," I heard myself retort. I took a limping half-step after him. "The boy is harmless."

The sorcerer spun back to me. "Harmless?" he roared. "You just gave him a godsdamned necklace of fireballs! You call that harmless?"

I gritted my teeth and raised my chin. "Then we should look for him and get it back," I said, enunciating each word with a clear, distinct bite. "Besides," I added then, my voice softening as I expressed my concern. "He may be hurt."

Xanos expressed his concern. "Bugger him," he said. He turned and began to walk away.

I hobbled after him. "At least we should wait for him," I insisted angrily.

"Unwise," the sorcerer shot over his shoulder. He kept walking. "We should leave the area as quickly as possible."

Ishiko spoke up again. "Unwise," she said.

Xanos stopped. He stared at her indignantly. "Why?"

The other woman pointed at me. "She's bleeding," she told him firmly. "She'll leave tracks. More than she has already."

Xanos glanced at me briefly. "Which is why we should leave," he replied briskly to Ishiko. "They have a trail to follow. We cannot afford delays."

I frowned at Ishiko. "I will be fine once my foot is bandaged," I insisted.

"Unwise," Ishiko repeated. She folded her arms across her chest and stood in the manner of one who had no intention of moving.

Xanos stared at her a moment longer. Then he rolled his eyes. "Nine Hells," he spat. Abruptly, he turned. He strode toward me. He neither looked nor sounded pleased at all. "Fine," he said when he reached me. "Up you go, princess," he said brusquely. Then, before I could gather my wits to react, he knelt, threw an arm around my waist, and hoisted me over his shoulder.

Quite suddenly, I found myself dangling face-down, the breath temporarily knocked out of me. "Wha-" I began breathlessly. I stopped. My wits returned. Along with them came the realization of what had just happened and where I was. I had the half-orc's arm clasped around the backs of my knees, my head dangling down his back, and the locations of some of the other parts of my anatomy in relation to his head did not even bear contemplation. "What are you doing?" I shrieked. I jabbed an elbow in the small of his back, which seemed the only safe place within striking distance. "Have you lost your mind?! Put me down!"

He grunted and flinched very satisfyingly when I hit him, but he did not let me go. "Very well," he said. "You are short, you have a terrible temper, and you look like a chipmunk."

A noise very much like a snort escaped me. I clapped a hand over my mouth. "That was not f-funny," I said at last, between my fingers.

"No?" He hitched me a little higher on his shoulder. "Then why are you laughing?"

There did not seem to be any response to that. At least, none that would not make matters worse.

We walked. At least, Xanos and Ishiko walked. I dangled, fumed, and, in the corner of my mind which was not preoccupied with my current predicament, I worried about Brown. I could only hope that he would be able to find us. He had done it before. If we did not move too quickly, I hoped that he would be able to do it again. I did not like to think of him alone in these ruins. There were far too many dangerous things for him to trip over.

While the others walked, I stared at the ground as it passed beneath the sorcerer's feet. The ground was not very exciting to look at, but it was safer than any of my other options. "This is ridiculous," I muttered.

"Better this than having you slow us down and leave bloody footprints for all the world to follow," Xanos answered bluntly.

I had no argument for that. I wished that I did. This was uncomfortable in so many ways that, had I been forced to describe the ways in which it was uncomfortable, I would not even know where to begin. "Fine," I said eventually, resigned. I watched the ground go by. Every so often, the hem of the sorcerer's mantle swirled into view. It had something that looked like very small writing embroidered along it. Idly, I wondered what it said. "Will you at least tell me which way we are going?" I added grumpily.

"North," Xanos replied shortly. "We can keep to the edge of the city without leaving it. It will give us some cover until Xanos decides what to do next."

I scowled. "Until _we_ decide what to do next," I corrected him.

I felt his laugh, reverberating through his chest and against my belly, more than I heard it. "You are in no position to dictate anything to me, chipmunk," he said drily.

I had no argument for that, either – though I was certain I would be able to find one just as soon as I was back on my own two feet and able to reach my scimitar again. _Legs_, I thought blackly. _Off. At the knee. _That would bring him down to my height, where we could have a long talk about manners and the importance thereof, since his mother apparently had not bothered to do so.

The sun rose, first through pinkish dawn and then climbing towards midday. Heat gathered. I did not like to think what parts of me the sun was warming most, because then I remembered the position I was in. It was best, I decided, not to think of it at all.

Fortunately, forgetting turned out to be easier than I expected. After a time, the sorcerer's steady pace became almost lulling, luring me to forget where I was and let my tired eyes slide shut.

I was in the midst of a fitful half-doze when Xanos dropped to his knees and deposited me, abruptly and without ceremony, on a patch of bare sand in the middle of a half-ruined and weed-choked old building.

I gasped, jerked fully awake by the twin shocks of the sudden movement and of my bruised backside hitting the ground. "What was that for?" I yelped.

Xanos glared at me, his hands on his hips. "I am tired," he rasped. "And it is close to noon. And I need to look at a map before we go any further." His glare sharpened dangerously. "Does her highness have any objections?"

He did indeed look tired. There were bruised-looking circles under his eyes. I did not think he had slept much in the past two days, and carrying me for half the morning could not have been trivial on top of that. "No," I said at last, looking down. I bit back a sigh. His mother may not have taught him manners, but mine had taught me. "I apologize," I said shortly. "Take your rest."

He studied me for a moment longer. Then, curtly, he nodded. "Thank you," he growled, and stalked past me into the scarce shade our shelter offered.

I could not tell whether his thanks were genuine or sarcastic, but I decided not to press the issue. That he had given them at all was already an improvement over his usual attitude, and I thought that if I questioned his sincerity he would become rude again out of sheer perversity. Rubbing the back of my neck, I looked around the place we had evidently chosen to rest in. Three of the sandstone walls of the ruin were mostly intact, and one wall was at least half intact. The walls cast some shade, broken by the sunlight streaming in through the deep, slumping holes where windows had once been. I thought there must have been another floor above us, too – the remnants of beams and wooden flooring cast some shade over roughly a quarter of the ground inside the ruin. Sand was piled in the corners. No living plants grew, either in our shelter or outside of it.

As usual, Ishiko did not seem to notice his suspicion, or if she did, she gave no sign of it. She crossed the ruin to where I sat. "Here," she said, and knelt. She had a small pack over her shoulder, which she now removed. Opening it, she pulled out a roll of bandages and a skin of water. "Hold out your foot."

Hold out my foot? I had been manhandled enough for one day. "Thank you," I said stiffly, pulling my feet away from her. "I will do it myself."

She looked at me for a moment, her face unreadable. Then she shrugged and stood. "Suit yourself," she said, and tossed the roll of bandages and the skin to the ground beside me. Then she walked over to the south wall. There was a gap in it which overlooked the way we had come, back towards Orofin. She positioned herself next to it, pulled out a small hand crossbow from a holster at her hip, and checked its mechanism. Then she pulled out a bolt and loaded the crossbow.

I kept a wary eye on her, too. I did not like to. I wanted to trust her, but unlike Brown, she was not very approachable. Then again, neither was I. That did not mean that I was untrustworthy. Perhaps it was the same with Ishiko. I did not know, but I did not like to judge her for her manner. I had been judged far too many times for the same.

Sighing, I drew my sword and sliced off a wad of bandage. Then I soaked the wad in water and began dabbing the blood and dirt from my foot. The wound was close to the ball of my foot. It was jagged, but fortunately not very deep. It was, however, very dirty. Wincing and pausing often to catch my breath from the pain, I cleaned the wound out as best I could. Then I dabbed it with the salve I had scavenged from the dead at El Ma'ra and began to wind the bandaging around my foot. I thought there was enough in the roll to bandage both feet, which was good. Since one fool had gotten rid of my sandals and another had run off with my boots, I needed some way to protect my feet.

A rustle of parchment caught my attention. I looked up to see Xanos sitting in the shade, the stolen journal sitting open on one knee and what looked to be a map draped over the other. He had his head raised as if listening for something. Whatever he heard or did not hear, it did not seem to please him. "I do not like this," he muttered at last.

Ishiko spared him a glance. "What?" she asked.

"We are not being followed."

The other woman shrugged and looked away again, resuming her watch over the path to Orofin. "Not yet. So?"

He gave her a long stare. "The Overseer's office has been broken into," he said flatly. "Half the city is in flames. And three, perhaps four individuals with no firm Zhentarim affiliation have vanished. There should be pursuit. There is not. Why?"

Ishiko did not seem concerned. "Too much confusion," she said. "Give them time."

Xanos grunted. "I do not like it," he repeated.

"What's not to like?"

"About unpredictable enemies? Everything."

I finished my bandaging and looked up. "How long will we stay here?" I asked.

Xanos looked at me briefly, then away. "Not long," he said. He turned his attention back to the journal, tapping it with his finger. "Enough time for Xanos to make sense of this."

I nodded. Tentatively, I stood, testing my weight on my newly-bandaged foot. It throbbed from the cleaning, but I thought I would be able to walk on it by the time we were ready to move. The pile of filthy bandages, however, was an issue. I had used more water than I would have liked in the cleaning. The skin would have to be refilled. I frowned, looking around our little shelter. "Is there any water nearby?" I wondered.

Ishiko shook her head. "Not that's safe to drink," she said.

A pit formed in my stomach. "Oh, no. Is it tainted?"

"Poisoned."

That one word both told me all I needed to know and left me with more questions than I had started with. Because Ishiko did not seem inclined to elaborate, I looked to Xanos for an explanation. "Who would do such a thing?" I asked in horror.

The sorcerer's eyes flicked up impatiently, then down again to his book. "There are still Talontar blightlords in Orofin," he said shortly. "Probably descendants of the ones who brought the plague. They have poisoned all of the aquifers."

I stared at him, trying to make sense of something which sounded utterly senseless. I could understand a group of people who would fight and raid any who came into their territory. It was common enough. But to poison the water of a whole region? "Sweet spirits. Why?" I asked.

Without looking up, Xanos turned another page. "Because their puny minds are not able to provide them with a less banal way of entertaining themselves than giving unwary adventurers a fatal case of the shits?" he said crudely. He shrugged. "It is hardly surprising. Clerics as a group are graced with a singular lack of intelligence. Why bother to think when your god can do all of the thinking for you?"

Ishiko raised an eyebrow at him. "Not a godly man, eh?"

Xanos snorted. "Blasphemy is the least the gods deserve for the misery they have inflicted on this world," he said. "Xanos is only giving them their due." Then he did look up. "Speaking of Talonites, however, they also enjoy attacking anyone unfortunate enough to wander into their territory and turning them into undead thralls," he added grimly. "We would be advised to head straight for the city limits as soon as we are done here."

I paced to the nearest wall, peeking out through a gap in the stones. The ruins looked unnaturally still, and seemed to go on forever. "Where _does_ the city end?"

"To the north and east of here. There are walls, but outside of Zhentarim territory they are mostly ruined. We should be able to find a way across. "

I did not know if I liked his use of the word 'should'. "And then?"

"Then? To the Scimitar Spires, perhaps. They will offer some cover. And some shade. We can find a cave there and consider what to do next. A nice, dark, cold cave." I heard him heave a longing sigh. "Ah, gods, what I would give for some shade."

I turned to face him. I looked at the ancient beams above his head. "You have shade," I pointed out.

He curled his lip. "Not enough," he said fervently. "Not nearly enough."

Silence fell. For lack of anything better to do, I explored our little hideaway, but found nothing of interest. I peered out through all of the walls, too, but aside from the great rocky fingers of the Scimitar Spires looming on the northern horizon, there was nothing of interest outside, either - only ruins.

Eventually, I sat down again at the edge of the shade to rest - though I kept one hand on the hilt of my sword. The sun rose high. Occasionally, a hot wind gusted over the ruins. The thick clouds of the night before had turned to thready white tatters. Overhead, a bird wheeled in lazy circles without moving its wings. With the sun in my eyes, I could not see what kind of bird it was. I hoped it was not a vulture. If it was a vulture and mistook me for a corpse, I decided that I would throw a rock at it. I was not yet ready meat for a carrion bird.

A loud exclamation broke into my thoughts. "I have him!" Xanos barked a laugh. "Bastard thought he could hide from me, eh?"

I blinked and twisted around to look at him. He was smirking triumphantly at the book on his knee. I felt a tiny surge of hope. "What did you find?" I asked.

The sorcerer looked up, still smirking. "That bastard, Thimm. I know where he lives – or at least where he keeps his slaves," he said. He closed the book with a snap and turned to the map. He ran his fingers over it with surprisingly delicacy. His eyes scanned the page. "Now I only need to locate these coordinates..."

I looked curiously at the map, or at least at what I could see of it. It looked familiar. "Is that Brown's map?" I asked.

The sorcerer did not look up. "Yes."

I frowned suspiciously. "Xanos?"

His voice was impatient. "Yes?"

"Did you _steal _Brown's map?"

He blinked. Then he did look up at me. "Of course I did," he said, bemused. He caught my incredulous stare. "What? He can always draw another one." He waved his hand at me and bent back to his task. "Now hush. Xanos is trying to concentrate."

I did not quite know how to respond to that. It was a position I had been finding myself more and more often as of late.

We waited. Eventually, Xanos let out another laugh and looked up. "Found him," he said gleefully. His forefinger had come to rest on a single point on the map. "The coordinates are in the Hills of Scent."

I frowned. "I know that name," I said slowly. "Though I do not know where I have heard it. Where are these hills?"

Xanos began to fold the map. "They lie north of the Scimitar spires, not far from the Zhentarim trade road," he answered. "I believe that some valuable herbs grow there – frankincense, myrhh, matla trees, and so forth."

"Matla trees?"

"I think you would call them dragon's blood."

My frown cleared. "Ah," I said, relieved to finally be understanding something. "Yes, sometimes our scouts would come back with some to trade. The sap is very valuable." I tapped my fingers thoughtfully against the hilt of my scimitar. "We should collect some if we have the chance," I added.

The sorcerer gave me an amused look. "Are you planning to go into the merchant trade, princess?"

Something about his amusement irritated me to no end. I was no pampered princess, and I was certainly no greedy outlander hungry for gold. "You know even better than I that nothing comes for free where the Zhentarim are concerned, mage," I said shortly. "We may need that money before the end of this."

"And if I told you that the Zhentarim used that sap for spellcasting? Would you sell it to them then?"

I paused. I felt my face redden. "They do?

"Yes. That is why they value it so highly, princess."

My flush deepened. "You might have told me," I said sullenly.

"I just did. Weren't you listening?"

Ishiko stirred. She had been so quiet for so long that I had almost forgotten she was there. "Bhaerlith," she said cryptically.

I turned my head to look at her fully, not certain I had heard her correctly. That had been happening a great deal lately. "I beg your pardon?" I asked, confused.

She returned my look blandly. "Bhaerlith," she repeated. Then she elaborated. A little. "It's a created oasis."

"Created?" I did not know of any natural way to make an oasis where there was none. That would mean that magic would have to be involved, and if the oasis was close to Zhentarim territory, that could only mean one thing. "Created by the Zhentarim, you mean?"

The other woman nodded. "Elah'zad's another," she said. "Not Zhentarim, though."

Something about the name sounded vaguely familiar to me. "Elah'zad?" I dissected the name. "The oasis of the moon goddess?"

Xanos finished folding the map. He put it and the book away again and stood. "Selune, you mean?" he asked me curiously.

"Selune?" I echoed. Then I shook my head. "No. I mean Elah - though she was cast out of the oasis long ago. Now the oasis belongs to Eldath." I looked at him. He was giving me a very odd look. "You do not know the story?" I had grown up hearing it. Surely he must have.

He hesitated. "Not…all of it, no," he said.

I thought that if Xanos knew the story, he would already have begun telling me about it. The fact that he was not seemed to imply that I had finally found something which he did not know. It was a strangely gratifying realization. "It was Elah's place once, it is true," I confirmed. "That is why it is named for her. But At'ar, the sun, was jealous of the moon's beauty and hated how the still waters of the oasis reflected it so much more clearly than they reflected hers. It made her so angry that she drove Elah away from her oasis and trapped the Mother of the Waters there forever, in punishment." I paused, thinking. "I think we should go there first," I added. "It is known that Eldath's followers are peaceful. If they are near to where we must go, they may know something, and if they are peaceful, they may share their knowledge without a fight."

Xanos gave me a lazy grin. He must have been feeling more rested. He was mocking me again. "Interesting," he drawled. "You, princess? Dodging a fight? Do not tell me that you are losing your edge. That would be terrifically boring."

My back stiffened. I scowled at him. "It is only sensible."

"Very well. Then tell me this, oh sensible one. What will you do if these pacifists refuse to cooperate?"

_The oasis is sacred, _the voice of caution warned me_. The spirits will be angry. _The faces of my family rose to mind, Zebah's face foremost among them. I fingered the hilt of my scimitar. "_I_ do not follow Eldath," I said quietly.

That earned me another grin, but this time it was not mocking. This time it was something darker, more feral, and oddly conspiratorial. It also made me feel deeply uncomfortable, though I could not put my finger on why. I flushed and looked away. A silence fell. That, too, was deeply uncomfortable.

I was spared the need to think of something to say to fill the silence by a sudden movement from Ishiko. She had climbed to the top of the wall. Now she twisted around and called down to us. "People coming," she said tersely.

Her words drove all other concerns out of my head. They seemed to have the same effect on Xanos. He straightened. His attention seemed to sharpen. "How many?" he asked briskly.

There was a brief pause. "Two dozen or so," the older woman answered after a moment. "Few humans. Mostly undead. Some fast. Probably ghouls."

"Ghouls?" Hurriedly, I pushed myself to my feet and crossed to the wall, where I peered around the corner of the crumbling stones. Gaunt grey figures, their skin mottled with rot, hove into my vision. I jerked my head back. I had my scimitar in my hand. I could not remember drawing it, but I supposed that did not matter. The important thing was that I had a sword in my hand. "_Ghilan,_" I said, as loudly as I dared. It could not be very loudly – _ghilan _heard very well for dead things. They moved very quickly, too. "Those are _ghilan._"

Xanos cast me a curious glance. "Is that what you call them?"

"Yes," I said curtly. "One _ghul_. Two _ghilan_. Kel-Garas sent them to harry us, sometimes. They were not easy to kill."

Xanos grunted in acknowledgement. "By themselves, ghouls are mindless," he muttered. Then he looked up, eyes narrowed to slits against the sun. "Do you see their minders?" he asked Ishiko abruptly.

"Aye," she called back softly. "Two."

"How are they dressed?"

"Black and purple armor." Another pause. "_And_ they have an otyugh."

The sorcerer's face cleared in sudden comprehension. "Ah," he said. "Xanos was wondering what the smell was."

I was beginning to smell it, too. I made a face and rubbed my nose. Whatever was responsible for the stench, it smelled like a mix of rotting vegetables and infected flesh. "Why?" I demanded, my voice muffled by my hand. I tried not to breathe too deeply. "What is it?"

The sorcerer's face was grim. "Talonites," he said.


	40. Chapter 40

I did not risk another look around the wall. "Have they seen us?" I asked tightly.

Something streaked past, knocking a few rock chips off of the wall. A crossbow bolt clattered against the ground on the far side of the ruined building. I jumped.

Ishiko dropped lightly to the ground from her vantage point on the wall. She gave me a bland look. "That answer your question?" she asked.

Xanos was scowling at the distant figures, his hands on his hips. "Wonderful," he said. "Just bloody wonderful."

I thought he was being sarcastic. Either that or he had gone temporarily insane. From what I had come to know of Xanos, I would not discount either possibility. "Can we fight them?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "Not here," he said tersely. "There are too many. We need higher ground or they will surround us." He turned his head, his eyes searching. "Quickly," he said then. He turned and strode for the opening in one corner of the crumbling walls, gesturing for us to follow. "This way. If we are separated, just remember to head north or east. Try to keep something between you and that crossbowman as much as possible."

I nodded curtly, drew my sword, and followed him out. Ishiko followed, sidling crabwise to keep the enemy in her sights. Her own crossbow was cocked and loaded again. I wished that I had one, and that I knew how to use it. A scimitar would not be of much use in close proximity to a ghul. They were too fast, and one swipe from their claws could poison a man's blood beyond any cure if the claws did not gut him outright. Ghilan had to be taken down from a distance - preferably with fire.

I looked at Xanos. For once he was neither smirking nor scowling. His expression had become very intent. I did not know whether to take comfort in that. On the one hand, if Xanos had stopped mocking everything and everyone around him then the situation must have been very serious indeed, which was bad. On the other hand, perhaps that intent expression meant that he had a plan, which was good. I did not have a plan, and if Ishiko did, I was not sure if I trusted her enough to follow it.

The realization made me wince. _When did I fall so far as to trust a mage?_ I thought morosely. The world no longer made sense. I wished I could hit something. Hitting things always cleared my head, and once my head was clear then perhaps I could trace the series of events which had led me to a place where I could not bring myself to trust a fellow warrior but could find myself trusting a man who not only did magic but also wore more jewelry and prettier clothes than I did.

We moved quickly from one ruined building to another, keeping our backs to what walls we could find. A shadow flickered past on the rocky ground. I looked up. That bird was still there, gliding between tufts of cloud far overhead. It seemed to be heading northward, just as we were. Perhaps it had had its fill of Orofin and decided to leave, too.

Another ruined building stood at the corner of two roads. We ducked behind its wall.

I peered around the wall before jerking back again. The ghilan were gaining. Behind them, like shepherds with their flock, came men in black armor and heavy purple sashes. Two of the men held large, ugly spiked maces. One had a crossbow.

Some huge, ugly thing shambled after both men and ghilan. It looked like a blob of boneless, misshapen flesh constructed around a lipless, tooth-filled mouth. At first I could not understand how the thing even moved. Then I saw a fleshy tentacle writhe up from it, then another, and saw how the thing half-crawled, half-pulled itself forward. It was not quite as disgusting as a zombie, but the stink coming from it and the way it gurgled as it moved brought it very, very close.

Next to me, Ishiko braced her right forearm with her left hand, rose from her crouch, let loose a bolt over the top of the crumbling wall, then turned and immediately dropped back down again. "They're gaining," she said.

Xanos looked at her. Then he stepped away from the wall, lifted his hands, shook his sleeves back, and made a strange motion. Between one moment and the next, the air seemed to shimmer and _twist_, and fire materialized between his hands. Then he opened his hands like a butterfly's wings and the fire streaked away, leaving a red-orange tail fading in the air behind it.

The ball of fire vanished from view. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then there was a boom. I did not see where the boom was, but I did hear voices raised. They did not sound pleased.

I stared at Xanos. There was something in what he had done that reminded me of my sister. She had done a similar thing, once, but it had been much smaller. I wondered if this was what my sister would be able to do if she ever learned how to control her power. It was a deeply unsettling thought.

Ishiko twisted to look behind the wall again. "They're not gaining as much now," she said drily. She turned back to Xanos, her eyebrow arched. "But you didn't get them all. And you hardly touched the otyugh."

The sorcerer rolled his eyes. "Some people are never happy," he muttered. He spun, sweeping an arm ahead of him. "Go," he ordered. "Run. While they are busy regrouping."

Ishiko covered our retreat with another shot from her crossbow, and we dashed across the ruined street. I hopped over a rock that looked like a building stone. The impact of landing made pain shoot up from my injured foot. I stumbled and went to my knees.

It was not a long stumble, but it must have been enough. Before I had gathered my wits again, I felt something hit me. I thought it must have been a rock, because the impact of it threw me forward onto my hands and knees. Then the pain came, hot and shocking, and I looked down to see the point of a bolt sticking out of my left shoulder. The point was bloody and, for some reason, smoking slightly. It was a very surprising thing to see in my own shoulder. "Oh," I heard myself say. It was not a very intelligent thing to say, but somehow I could not think of much else to say but, "Oh."

I heard running footsteps. A shadow temporarily blotted out the sun. A wiry hand shot under my other arm and grabbed my bicep in a grip like iron. Wordlessly, Ishiko hauled me to my feet and half-dragged, half-carried me the rest of the distance across the street before shoving me down behind a wall.

I dropped to the ground, hard. My legs were trembling too much to bear my weight. Waves of alternating hot and cold flooded me, but my shoulder, ah – _that_ felt as if it was on fire.

Another shadow blocked out the sun. This one was much bigger than the last. "Cyric's Balls," Xanos swore. "What hit her?"

I heard a click, a thunk, and then, a moment later, a more distant, meatier thunk. Something screeched. "Bolt," Ishiko answered distractedly. "Get it out quick. I think it's poisoned."

"That much was obvious," Xanos said scathingly. I tried to move. He stopped me with his hand on my good shoulder. It held me down with embarrassing ease. "Hold still, you little idiot," he snapped. "I need to see it."

I could not. Shudders ran through me, so hard that they were almost convulsions. "Burns," I managed. I could not seem to catch my breath, and my heart was racing far too fast. "I think-" I began. Then my stomach lurched. Bile rose. I had just enough strength and presence of mind to half-roll to one side so that I vomited on the ground and not on myself.

I heard a curse. I did not understand it. The others' voices suddenly sounded far away. Far closer were the rough hands suddenly pulling me back and shoving the blood-soaked fabric of my shirt to one side. The pain was worse than fire, worse than steel. The world tilted crazily. My fingers spasmed, digging into the dirt, a half-formed thought in my mind that if I did not hold on to the earth I might fall off the face of it and go spinning straight into the sky. The grains of sand under my fingernails felt like boulders. The whisper of linen against my skin felt like a rasp. Hot little needles ran through my veins instead of blood.

Something pressed down on my chest, pinning me to the ground. Through the roaring in my ears, I thought I heard someone say, "Brace." Before I could make sense of the command, I felt a yank on the bolt in my shoulder. Then came heat, a flood of heat, scalding even against my fevered skin. Then the pain hit, and just as it did, something blunt was jabbed into the source of it, causing an entirely new form of agony that was not diminished even when a flood of what felt like icy water replaced the terrible prodding.

I tried to scream. Before I could, I felt cold glass shoved between my teeth, and another, even colder liquid filled my mouth. I instinctively tried to spit it out, but found I could not move my jaw. A hand with a grip like iron was holding it shut and pressing down on my throat. Reflexively, I swallowed, my throat working against the pressure.

The horrible cold stuff went down. The pressure lifted. I rolled over, gagging and shuddering. The force that held me let go. I did not particularly care why. I was just grateful that it had stopped doing such painful and unpleasant things to me. I fell back limply, my head spinning and my chest heaving as I gulped in air.

I could not tell how long I lay there, half-insensible. Sound was the first sense to return. Distantly, then more clearly, I heard cursing. Further away, there were shouts and snarls.

Sight was the next sense to swim back. I opened my eyes and saw a dead branch clawing its way across a bright blue sky. It was very pretty, with few clouds. Briefly, I caught a glimpse of a bird soaring overhead before it vanished behind a cloud. The bird looked familiar. I thought it was the same one I had seen before.

I turned my head and blinked to clear my eyes of sweat. A hilt swam into view. It looked familiar, too, only it was on the ground, not in my hands as it should have been. I must have dropped my sword. Hammad would not like that.

I blinked again. Recollection came back. I struggled upright, and the world spun. The smell of blood seemed to cover everything. When the world had steadied enough for me to risk moving my head, I looked down. My shirt was soaked with blood. I tried to peel the fabric away from my skin, but it clung to me, wet and heavy and red.

Dazed, I looked down further. The sand beneath me was the color of rust. "Is that mine?" I heard myself croak.

Ishiko's voice answered. "Yes," she said bluntly. "Bolt nicked an artery. Bleeding almost got you before the poison did."

I looked up, squinting towards the source of her voice. The other woman was kneeling behind the wall, her crossbow propped on the stones. As I watched, she fired one bolt and reached for another on the bandolier she wore around her hips. I heard the sound of the bolt striking flesh. Something shrieked. It did not sound human.

I blinked. "Oh," I said faintly. "Well. T-thank you." Blood loss did explain why I felt as if I might faint if I moved too quickly. Groping, I managed to lift one hand and place it on my sword's hilt. This movement seemed to sap what little energy I had. "What-" I had to stop and swallow a swell of nausea. Once it had passed, I tried again. "What is happening?" I managed to ask.

The crossbow's string snapped forward. Ishiko drew it back and reloaded it without looking at me. "You pray to any gods?" she asked.

I squinted at her, trying to force my eyes to focus. Perhaps then I would understand the question. It was a strange question. We had had a temple to Lathander at home, but we had never prayed to Him. Perhaps we should have. It might have helped. As for spirits, one did not actually pray to them. One just gave them what they wanted and hoped they gave more boons than curses. "I…suppose," I croaked dubiously.

Ishiko grunted. "Then start praying."

I stared at her a moment longer. Then, using the crumbling wall to pull me up, I rose to my knees. There was a hole in the stones. I leaned my shoulder against the wall and peered through it.

Figures swam into view. The _ghilan_ were in front. They had dropped into a four-legged lope. I saw their lipless grins, and the exposed, grey-pink muscle glistening in their shoulders and on their backs. Behind them were the men in black armor, and behind them was that fleshy thing that seemed all gaping mouth and waving tentacles.

They were close. They had not been so close before. I realized, with a sinking heart, that I was the reason for this. If I had not allowed myself to get shot, the others would not have been forced to stop to help me. Now we were all about to be trapped.

Ishiko glanced at me quickly, grimaced, and shoved me down with her free hand on my uninjured shoulder. "Get back," she ordered. She glanced to one side. "And stay down."

I was too weak and bewildered to argue. "What?" I tightened my hand on my sword. It occurred to me that I would have to fight. I did not know whether I was up to it. I did not think I had much of a choice. "Why should I-" I began, and half-rolled over, looking around to see where Xanos had gone.

I saw the sorcerer almost immediately, but the sight told me nothing. To my amazement, he seemed to standing in the open and doing absolutely nothing. He stood motionless, his hands at his sides, his palms facing forward, and his head down. His hands were covered in blood. So were his robes, though the blood only showed as darker smears on the crimson fabric.

Confused, I looked at his face. It had gone very strange – still and taut and intent. I did not know what he was staring at, or even if he was staring at anything I could see. His eyes were curiously blank.

I did not know why he was not moving, but I could hear our enemies getting closer. I opened my mouth to say something. Before I could do so, a hand clapped over my mouth.

Ishiko glared at me warningly. "Don't distract him," she hissed.

I did not see why I should not interrupt him. He was not doing anything. Still, I tightened my lips, swallowed my words, and looked back at the sorcerer…

…and I blinked. Where before there had been Xanos, now there were several. Each of them moved in sync, casting identical shadows. I could not tell which one was the real Xanos, or even if the real Xanos was still there.

I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand. I thought that perhaps I was still feverish, that if I could clear my eyes then things would start to make more sense, but it was no good. When I opened my eyes again, there were still far too many Xanoses.

_One of him was bad enough, _I thought, not all that coherently. I did not think I would be able to handle more than one. I was only mortal, and there were limits to my patience.

A hail of bolts – similar to the one that had shot me, I thought – flew at them. The other men must have had crossbows, too. Then, before I could no more than make a startled noise, some of the bolts went right through, as if the images were as insubstantial as air. The images seemed to warp, for a moment. Then three of the sorcerers vanished.

The last bolt did not go through the last image. Instead, it sliced through the sorcerer's red mantle, ripping a hole in what appeared to be very substantial fabric.

Xanos – the real Xanos, I thought - glanced down. His robe was a darker red where the bolt had sliced across his leg. He shifted his weight slightly and lifted an eyebrow. His thumb touched one of the rings on one of his fingers, so quickly that I was not sure that I had seen the motion at all. Then he looked back up, to someone I could not see. He grinned almost playfully. "Poison, eh? How predictable." Then he lifted his hands, palms up. His eyes seemed to unfocus. "My turn."

Fire came up. It came up from the ground at his feet. It came up from the stones. It even came up from the air. Dead brush whooshed all at once into full flame, which seemed to give the fire an even stronger foothold, because it immediately grew even taller, first rising to the sorcerer's knees, then his waist, then higher, spreading out and out in a ring all around him. Tongues of flame arched skywards, eerily soundless. The air began to shimmer with heat.

Then the sorcerer flung his hands out, and the fire streamed away from him with a roar like that of a hungry lion.

I had once heard it said that fire was a living thing, and that was why dead things hated it. I thought, hazily, that whoever had told that to me had been more right than they knew. The more fire the sorcerer flung at his enemies, the more the fire around him seemed to grow. Twining, writhing, snapping, it rose and rose, feeding on dead branches and stone and even, it seemed, the air itself. The ground beneath it began to glow an angry coal-red in spots, then orange, then yellow, then white.

The sorcerer stood in the heart of the blaze, his hands spread wide and his eyes glowing like lit torches. He was wreathed in fire, so much that he should have been charred to ash by now, but the fire did not seem to touch him. He had never seemed more otherworldly to me than he did in that moment. He hardly even seemed a man at all. He had become a force of nature, as beautiful and as terrible as the sun.

The fire seemed to be sucking the very air out of my lungs. My chest heaved. Sweat beaded on my forehead. A shiver ran through me. I still felt feverish. Perhaps that explained why I could not look away.

I should have looked away. Magic was forbidden. It was wickedness. For a mortal man to hold such power was a crime. To see it was a sin.

I should have looked away, but then, I had never been very good at doing what I should.

A sharp slap to the back of my head finally jerked me back to reality. "Look later," Ishiko snapped. "Fight now." She thrust her crossbow under my nose, offering it to me hilt-first. "Take this," she said, and drew her axe. Her bandolier of bolts she unhooked and threw down to me. "Shoot anything that comes close."

I flushed and tried to call after her, but my tongue could not seem to put the words together. If it had, I would have told her that I did not know how to shoot a crossbow and that therefore leaving me with hers was useless, but my floundering had robbed me of the chance. She was already moving away, slipping around the wall with her axe in one hand and a long, curving dagger in the other.

I looked down at my new weapon in rising panic, then up again. There were sounds of fighting, of an axe meeting flesh. The sorcerer's ring of fire was little more than a flicker, now. As I watched, one of the armored men reached him, mace upraised for a swing.

For a moment I thought it was too late, that the mace would surely connect. Then the air around the sorcerer seemed to _warp, _twisting in the eye like a dagger. For an instant the sorcerer himself seemed to waver, a purplish haze obscuring him. Then, just as suddenly, he reappeared, standing two steps to the left of where he had been. His enemy's mace swiped through empty air. Overextended, the man stumbled.

Xanos did not wait for his opponent to recover. His arm snapped out. His hand closed around the cleric's neck. Cloth strained across the sorcerer's shoulders as he half-lifted the man until his enemy's booted feet just scraped the ground. I expected the man to fight, to retaliate, to try to break free. Instead, he just made a very strange noise. His eyes bulged, and his hands flew up as if to claw the sorcerer's wrist. He appeared to be trying to scream, but all that escaped him was a wordless bubbling sound. White smoke rose from beneath the half-orc's hand. At first I could not see why. Then I saw the blood run hissing down the armored man's breastplate, in trickles at first and then faster, in streams, and there was something green and bubbling that ran with it, raising more acrid white smoke as that bubbling green stuff began to eat holes through the metal.

Within a few heartbeats, the man had stopped struggling. His eyes glazed over with one last gurgle, and then nothing. Xanos held him a moment longer, as if to be sure he was dead, then opened his hand. The corpse dropped, a frothing mix of blood and acid and chunks of half-dissolved flesh pouring from the hole where its throat had been.

I realized that my mouth was hanging open. This was a mistake not only because it was the act of a fool to stare open-mouthed at a dead body when there was a battle going on not ten feet away, but also because the corpse seemed to be putrefying far too rapidly. The stink was overwhelming. I closed my mouth, but somehow, that did not diminish the horrible scent of decay that suddenly seemed to cover everything.

I sank back against the wall, fumbling with the crossbow. A shadow fell across my lap. Blinking, I looked up.

Rows and rows of sharp yellow teeth greeted me. They bristled from a lipless mouth at the end of a huge tentacle whose flesh bulged with misshapen tumors and oozed from dozens of open sores.

I stared at it for a long, uncomprehending moment. Then it twitched and I threw aside the useless crossbow, reaching for my scimitar. I did not know if my blade could cut through that thick, lumpy flesh, but at least it was a weapon I knew how to use.

Behind me, the wall shuddered, and before I could even lift steel and swing, another tentacle slapped over the wall, then another, and the great stinking hulk of the otyugh shambled up and over the wall.

I looked at the underbelly of the beast, heaving over my head. Then some presence of mind re-asserted itself, and grabbed my sword and threw myself out of the way before the beast lowered its belly onto my head.

For such a lumbering, ugly thing it moved quickly, too quickly for me to gather my fever-enfeebled wits and hit it before the last tentacle had writhed out of reach.

Something flashed – a curved knife, flying end over end. It came to a quivering standstill in the creature's flank, if a thing that was no more than a mouth and a sack of flesh and a few tentacles could be said to have a flank. The otyugh gurgled angrily and turned as if to face her, then writhed back around. I could see Xanos beyond it. Snaps of his wrist sent little yellow arrows of fire darting into the otyugh's hide, where they punched bloody, smoking holes. He was limping. I could not tell how much of the blood on him was his.

My heart suddenly in my throat, I scrabbled in the dirt, trying to stand. My knees wobbled. Inwardly, I cursed and willed them to hold still. I needed to stand and fight. Enemies, allies, friends - whatever Ishiko and Xanos were, they had stopped for me. I could not repay them by sitting here and watching them die.

Besides, if they died I was not likely to live long, anyway. As Hammad would have said, honor was all well and good, but sometimes good sense was better, and my good sense told me that if the others died I was not going to be able to kill that thing all by myself.

I had taken a half-step forward when another shadow flickered over the ground, and I heard a voice that, for a moment, made me think this really was all a fever dream, because it was the last voice I would ever have expected to hear in the middle of a fight.

"Look out below!" wailed a voice that sounded remarkably like Brown's, except that there was something not quite right about it, as if it was coming from…

I stopped and squinted upwards. _The sky? _I thought dazedly. _What is Brown doing up there? He is going to hurt himself._

Then a figure shot down – down? – from above, like a hawk diving on a rabbit. There was a bright glitter, like a flash of metal in the sun. Then something fell down from the sky and struck the otyugh.

The newcomer was smaller than the otyugh, but it had more speed behind it. It and the otyugh crashed together and then rolled in a jumble of glittering metal and lumpy flesh. A cloud of dust rose, just before both figures slammed into the opposite wall. The impact made the ground seem to jump beneath me.

The otyugh's tentacles quivered. Then, finally, they went limp, crashing to the ground in another great cloud of dust.

There was a moment of stillness, shocking in its abruptness.

Then something moved over the motionless otyugh. There was a scrabbling sound, a confusing blur of motion and a panicked stream of, "Oh gods, oh gods, please don't hurt me, oh gods I'm too young to die...oh." Abruptly, it stopped. "Oh," the thing which sounded like Brown said then, sounding surprised. "Huh. It's dead. How about that?" There was a sound like a tent wall being caught in a gust of wind, and then I saw a pair of yellowish-brown wings, wings like a bat's but bigger than any bat had ever been, snap open in an eruption of sand. "All right, then!"

Through the stink of otyugh, a smell like hot, oiled metal tickled my nostrils. I wrinkled my nose. It was not a foul smell, but it was not a pleasant one, either. More than anything, it was simply _strange_.

I heard a crunch of boots and saw, from the corner of my eye, a swirl of robes cut through the smoke that still rose from the ground. The…thing must have heard it, too, because it suddenly yelped in fear and dove for the sandy ground.

Xanos reached down and yanked the creature's head up by its horned chin, hauling it to a stop in mid-dive. "Well, well, well," the sorcerer breathed. "So nice of you to join us again." He tightened his grip. "_Wyrmling_."


	41. Chapter 41

_A/N: Congratulations, faithful readers! It's a bouncing baby...dragon?_

* * *

The wyrmling tried to jerk its head away. I tightened my grip - I had caught it at last, and I would be damned if it escaped me now.

Blood trickled down my thigh. The ring of bone on my hand was hot. It was fighting the Talonite poison. I hoped, for my sake, that it won. Fortunately, I could not feel it – neither the poison nor the pain. The last dregs of bliss still filled my veins, leaving me feeling strangely light-headed and almost serene.

It had been far too long. Mortal flesh was not made to contain too much power for too long. The magic always wanted a way out. I had been holding it back for so long that I had almost forgotten how good it felt to let go.

It occurred to me that I owed those Talonites my thanks for giving me this opportunity. Pity they had tried to kill me and therefore obliged me to say my thanks to their smoking corpses, but then, that was what the fools got for backing a sorcerer into a corner.

And now I even had an answer to one of the little mysteries which had been plaguing me lately. All in all, I decided, it had turned out to be a surprisingly productive day.

Curiously, I inspected my prize.

The wyrmling was a stocky beast roughly the size of a small pony, not counting its long neck and tail. Its full length, from nose to tail, might have reached eight spans, though just barely, and only then if the creature stretched its long neck out. It was its wings that made it appear larger than it truly was, and those wings which revealed a great deal about the beast's true nature.

Those wings were wedge-shaped, bone and pinion sharply slanted backwards, the membranous tissue between them anchored not only along the creature's spine but all of the way down to the tip of its tail. It was a shape well suited to gliding like a kite over long stretches of desert but poorly suited to the complex maneuvers of aerial combat. Then again, if I knew my draconic lore, _this _creature would never engage in any kind of combat if it could possibly avoid it. This one would flee, and hide, and bury its head in the sand until the enemy went away. That is, it would flee if all attempts at talking its way out had failed. To a dragon such as this, words were _always_ the first resort, and abject cowardice was a legitimate battle tactic.

Its head, too, was telltale, not so much for the shape as for the smooth, bony plate that extended backwards from orbits of its eyes then curved upwards into a crest. Except for the two horns that bearded its chin, the creature was hornless, crowned only by that sweeping crest.

Most telling of all were its scales. The centers of them were still a dull and mottled brown, but there, just around the outermost edges, they had begun to harden and take on a metallic yellow sheen that was far too bright to be gold.

I shoved the wyrmling's head down and, before it could do more than squeak in surprise, placed my booted foot over the back of its neck, just behind its protective crest. This left my hands free, which was an improvement on before – and if it tried to move, well, it would find out why it was such a bad idea to leave a sorcerer with his hands free. "You are mis-named, wyrmling," I said pleasantly. "You are not brown. You are _brass_."

Awkwardly, the creature cocked its head just enough to roll one reptilian eye up at me. Its eye had a slit black pupil but no iris. Instead, a lambent yellow-orange, like molten metal, filled it from lid to lid. "Fine," it said sulkily, in a voice that was similar in tone but deeper in timbre than the voice it had had in human form. It tried to pull its head away, but stopped when I did not immediately lift my foot. "You've caught me," it went on. "I hope you're happy. Now let me go."

I shifted a little more of my weight onto my front foot. The wyrmling made a strangled noise. "Not just yet," I said. "I have some questions for you, little one."

A sudden snort resonated through the creature's snout, raising up a little whirl of sand from the ground below. A milky white inner eyelid suddenly scythed across its eye, whisking away a few troublesome grains of sand. "Little one," it repeated with sullen scorn. "Hmph. That's rich. I'm not even grown and I'm already almost as big as you."

I let a trickle of power bleed into my fingertips. "Move an inch," I said, still in that pleasant tone, "And you will become smaller by a head."

The creature did not move. "I told you," it said quietly. With the metallic edging to its scales, the creature ought to have felt cool to the touch, but I could feel the heat radiating from it, like a pot set out all day in the summer sun. "I'm not afraid of your fire."

A drop of acid beaded on my fingertip and fell to the sand, hissing. "Who said anything about fire?" I said, just as quietly.

The wyrmling's eye rolled away from mine to stare at the suddenly bubbling patch of sand. At the sight, the creature seemed to shrink. When it next spoke, it sounded a great deal less sure of itself. "Why are you doing this?" it whined. "I'm not your enemy. I helped you. Why are you being so _mean_?"

"Because you have earned it," I said flatly. "I do not like it when people lie to me."

At that, the wyrmling seemed to wilt. "I didn't lie," it whined indignantly. "I didn't. I just…" It paused, seeming to grope for words. "…I just didn't tell you the _whole_ truth. That's not lying, it's just…leaving things out."

_Ah, yes_. I had nearly forgotten that little piece of draconic lore. As good natured as brass dragons generally were, they were still dragons, and as such had an innate talent for duplicity. No doubt that talent was one of the reasons why this little fledgling was still alive. That, and a truly unprecedented amount of luck. "In that case, I think it is time for the whole truth," I said. Thoughtfully, I looked down at the back of the little dragon's head. "Come, wyrmling," I added heartily. "Tell me the truth, and perhaps I will even let you go."

It gave me a sullenly suspicious glare. "Perhaps?" it echoed.

I shrugged. "If I promised to let you go, I would most likely be lying," I admitted candidly. "And we _are _trying to be honest here, are we not?"

After a moment, the wyrmling heaved a sigh. A fine wisp of smoke rose from its nostrils. "Fine," it said resignedly. It shifted its head slightly, laying its nose between its forepaws. "Ask. What did you want to know?"

Finally, we were making some progress. "What is your name? The truth, now."

"I don't have a name."

I snorted. "I find that hard to believe." Dragons cultivated names the way Drogan had cultivated his roses. The eldest wyrms could take hours to properly introduce themselves, assuming that they were the talkative kind of dragon and not the murderous kind.

"Believe it or not. I don't care what you think," the young dragon said huffily. "I'm telling you the truth. Mother never gave me a name, and I…" It hesitated. "I haven't chosen one."

"Why not?"

It sniffed. "A dragon's first naming is very important," it replied primly. "I don't expect you to understand."

My good mood was fading. I supposed it had only been a matter of time. "Try me," I growled.

"Names have power. If you put a name on something, you shape it. Mother wanted to wait until we were old enough that she could find our real names and didn't give us the wrong ones by mistake, but then she-" The wyrmling stopped in mid-sentence. Beneath my foot, I felt the muscles in its neck move as it swallowed. "A-anyway, I don't have a name," it said raggedly. "Not a real one. Not like a real dragon. The D'Tarig just called me Brown because that's the color I ended up when I tried to change my shape. Mother was better at it than I am. She showed me how to do it, and I could change my shape fine, but I couldn't change my color, too." Suddenly, it laughed. "It's a good thing my scales haven't turned yet, or else the D'Tarig really would have talked," it added with a strange kind of whimsy. "Maybe I would have ended up being called Sparkles or Yellow or...or maybe Sandy. Wouldn't that be dreadful?"

"I do not know," I said blithely. "You tell me, Sparkles."

The wyrmling harrumphed. "Very funny."

"I know. So good of you to notice." I shifted my weight again. My injured leg was starting to throb. "Very well," I went on. "What do you want with Xanos? You followed me for a reason."

The dragon hesitated. Then it shrugged. "I don't know," it said. "I thought…maybe you and Nadiya could help. Or at least that I'd be safer with you. I heard you talking. I know you're no friends of the Zhents. Neither am I." Its voice fell. "I told you what they did."

"Killed your mother, yes," I said bluntly. "You mentioned." I raised an eyebrow. "So that was the truth?"

The wyrmling shot me a surprisingly bitter glance. "I didn't lie about that," it spat. "Yes, they killed her. What did you expect? They're Zhents."

It was strange to hear such loathing in the voice of one so young. Then again, I had already cultivated plenty of hatred by his age - though mine had been more diffused. I had learned very early that the world both hated and feared half-orcs. Then I had learned that it felt the same about sorcerers. At the time, it seemed that the only appropriate response had been to hate the whole world back. "You hate them, don't you?" I asked softly.

The dragon lifted its head, its eyes narrowing. "Of course I do. And not just because of what they did to Mother. They're vile," it growled. "They hurt people. They attacked the caravans that went through Mother's part of the Spires because they wanted what the caravans had. Innocent people, ambushed and killed. Well, mother tried to help those people, and the Zhents hunted her down and killed her for it." The dragon paused. Its head drooped. "S-she knew they were coming," it went on, its voice beginning to shake and go shrill. "She, um. She told us to hide. Then she led them away, but the others didn't hide well enough, and then t-the Zhentarim came and t-they smelled like blood and dark magic and I…I hid, just like Mother said, up high in a little crack in the wall where it was too dark for the humans to see me, but the others didn't listen, they never listened, and when the humans came, they came with weapons and spells and they-" Violently, the dragon shuddered. It buried his face between its forefeet. "I shouldn't have let you see me," he wailed. "I should have run away and hidden again. It's all I'm good for."

I looked at the wyrmling a moment longer. Disgust rose in me. I was not certain whether it was at myself or at this poor, defeated wreck of dragonhood I had before me. Abruptly, I took my foot away from Brown's neck. "Then why did you?" I demanded. "You could have flown away and never looked back. Why did you choose to show yourself?"

The young dragon did not even bother to lift his head. His wings moved in what might have been a shrug. "What else could I do?" he asked dully. "I saw what was after you. They'd have hurt you. It didn't matter how scared I was, then. I couldn't let them hurt you. You're my friends." He did lift his head then, twisting it around on his long, muscular neck to look at Nadiya from the corner of one bright yellow eye. She looked away. The wyrmling blinked uncertainly. "I...I thought you were, anyway."

Nadiya was staring at the fledgling, a look of mingled anger and fascination twisting her face. "A dragon," she whispered. She coughed, and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Blood soaked the fabric from her shoulder to her elbow. It left a smear across her forehead. "Is he…is it…a _child_?"

"Yes," I answered. By draconic standards, Brown was little more than an infant – a highly intelligent baby bird, fallen from its nest. "And by himself, he is harmless...though do not think that means I will let you go," I warned the little dragon.

He blinked in surprise, then began to bristle. "What? Why not?"

"Why should I? I was under the impression that you wanted to join our merry little parade of futility. Have you changed your mind?"

At that, Brown's indignation deflated slightly. "I…well, I used to," he said hesitantly. He lowered his voice to a mutter. "I'll admit, now I'm not so sure."

I shrugged benignly. "Nevertheless, here you are," I said. "And can you honestly tell me that if the Zhentarim captured you, you would not tell them whatever they asked if it might entice them to let you go?" The wyrmling looked away silently, which was a clear enough answer. "No, you will come with us," I decided. It was the only sensible decision. "As you said, you are safer with guardians - and we are safer without your loose lips at large, saying gods-know-what to gods-know-who."

Brown gave me a long-suffering stare. "Don't be silly," he said huffily. "I'm a dragon. I don't have lips."

I rolled my eyes. "Are all dragons as pedantic as you?"

Again, the dragon deflated. His moods seemed as mercurial as a…well, as a child's. "I don't know," he said sadly. "I don't know any other dragons." He gave me another long look. Then he sighed. "It's all right," he said resignedly. "I'll come. I'm tired of being alone, anyway. Do you know how boring and lonely it gets out in the Spires with no one but rats to talk to? All they want to talk about is food. Looking for food, finding food, eating food...and do you have any idea of the kinds of things rats eat? It's disgusting."

Ishiko stirred. The Kara-Turan woman had fallen into a loose crouch, her forearms across her knees and her eyes still glued to the hapless wyrmling. "That why you came to work for Ghufran?" she asked. "Boredom?"

Awkwardly, the wyrmling shrugged. His wings rustled. "Sort of," he said dubiously. "I mean, I went to Tel Badir because I thought it'd be safer than going where any Zhentarim were and I thought if I had to listen to the rats any longer I'd end up eating them just to shut them up." He wrinkled his snout. "It wouldn't even matter how bad they tasted. At least I wouldn't have anybody trying to tell me that food tastes better rotten."

Ishiko raised her eyebrows at him. "So what'd you do in Tel Badir?"

The dragon blinked at her in surprise. "You should know, Ishi," he said. "Or...well, maybe you don't. You only met me after Ghufran did." Thoughtfully, he scratched the side of his scaley nose. "See, what happened was I knew I couldn't just show up in Tel Badir without a good reason, so I started drawing maps and offering them for sale. I like maps, and I like flying, and flying made it really easy to draw the places I'd seen, so it wasn't much trouble. Anyway, I guess somebody showed one of my maps to Ghufran, because one day she came and snapped me up. First she asked me to plan her routes, which wasn't so hard as long as they were somewhere I'd flown over before. Then, after I did well at that, she asked me to work as her guide." He shrugged again. "I went along with it because she gave me more gold than the other people, and she was interesting to talk to…and she hates the Zhentarim, too. I didn't think I'd meet any around her."

Nadiya cleared her throat. Her voice was hoarse, but faint. "I still do not understand what the Zhentarim wanted with him," she said slowly. "If he is no threat, why would they want to kill him?"

"Scales," I answered simply, eyeing Nadiya sideways. Dark circles ringed her eyes, her normally tawny skin was the color of tea well diluted with milk, and her lips were an anemic shade of blue. "Scales, and blood, and bone."

She looked at me, frowning. "There are many beasts of bone and scale which are far easier to kill than dragons," she said skeptically. "And even more beasts which bleed."

"True," I said. "But dragons are no mere beasts, princess." I gestured at Brown. "Just look at this one. Not only can he speak, but he was most likely self-aware and capable of speech before he was even hatched. Furthermore, he has not even seen two decades of life and he is already able to perform magic that some human mages never grasp in a lifetime of practice. Magic is bound up inextricably in a dragon's very substance. It is what gives them their sentience, their power. Death does not change that. Even dead, magic lingers in their remains."

Comprehension widened the girl's eyes. She glanced once at the dragon and then, wincing, away. "Oh," she said. "That is what the Zhentarim wanted, wasn't it? The magic."

"Yes," I answered thoughtfully. "Or, more accurately, they wanted power. No doubt an unguarded nest full of young hatchlings made for a very tempting-"

My words were interrupted by a shout. "Stop!" the wyrmling shrieked, rising up in a sudden fury. His voice shook. "Stop talking! Do you think I don't know? I know what happened to Mother! She meant to lead them away and kill them so they wouldn't hurt us, but if she'd succeeded they would never have come back and killed my brothers and s-sisters, and I'm not _stupid_, I can see where all this talk of blood and bone leads, and I want you to stop _talking _about it like it's _nothing_, like it's only something you read in a book and not really _real_, you…you…you…" Breathing raggedly, the young dragon stopped, seeming to scour his brain for the right word. "You…_achuakmolik'nurh_!" he finished shrilly.

I stared at him, sorting through surprise at his sudden show of anger and a translation of his words all at once. Then the meaning of his words came to me. I barked a laugh. "Ugly green-skin?" I echoed. "Hardly inventive, little one. Try harder. If you must insult me, the least you can do is make it a good one."

He glared at me from beneath his scaly brows. "And there you go again, turning everything into a joke," he said disgustedly. His tail thumped against the ground, agitated. "Why do you do that? Don't you see? It's not _funny_, Xanos. The Zhentarim kill people. They kill everyone. They'll kill you, too, if you don't hide."

My mirth faded. I glanced at Nadiya. "Xanos has no intention of dying," I said tersely. I had no intention of letting _her_ die, either. She had already earned me some formidable enemies, cost me several healing potions and a potent antidote, and ruined my robe by bleeding all over it. She would live long enough to see her family again or I would strangle her for needlessly putting me through all of this.

Brown stared at me a moment longer. Then he shook his head. "My mother didn't intend to die, either," he said quietly. Then he seemed to sigh and gather himself. He looked up with an air of reluctance. "You have to know…"

I waited for him to continue, but he seemed hesitant. "Know what?" I prompted impatiently.

He paused a moment longer. Nervously, his foreclaws tapped a tattoo on the ground. "There are more Talonites in this area," he said at last. "I saw them when I was…you know." Quickly, he jerked his snout up towards the sky. "Up there."

I snorted. "Tell us something we do not know, dragon."

He hunched his shoulders forward, his wings curving up to shade his face protectively. "I'm serious," he protested miserably. "Please, listen. There are a lot of them. Lamia, too. They'll find you. Us. If you won't hide, we need to get out of here." His head swung, left then right, as if peering for enemies behind every wall. "Quickly."

Dragons, I recalled, had very sharp eyes. Thoughtfully, I rubbed my chin. "Where did you see them?" I asked.

The dragon lowered a wing enough to peek over his shoulder. "Um," he said. "Not far. The first group…they were already out. Another went out from the tower not long after. Patrols, I think. They were coming east." He turned his eyes forward again. His eyes were alien, his face reptilian, but both were still surprisingly easy to read for all that. Both looked worried. "They're bound to see us."

"I see." I would have to hoard my strength. That, and hope for lamia. Lamia did not typically use ranged weapons or spells. If my enemies were limited to close combat, I would be able to peel them apart easily enough before they could even reach me. Ranged weapons or spellcasters were a problem only solved by hitting them with all of my strength before they could let fly. I had done it once today, but could not keep doing it indefinitely. Sooner or later I would exhaust myself, and once that happened I would be useless as anything but a battering ram. "And the lamia?" I asked out loud.

"All over, in small groups. They're harder to see." The dragon grimaced. I caught a glimpse of a curved white fang. "They know how to hide." He lifted his head. "If we went straight for the walls…I think we could probably reach them in a day. We would get there faster if we flew, but I...I don't know if I could carry anyone. I mean, I've never tried, but it's all I can do to lift myself off the ground. I don't think I could lift anyone else. Definitely not three of you at once."

Ishiko cocked her head. "He's right," she spoke up laconically. "Lamia have a nose for blood." She looked around, her eyes searching. "Won't be long. Either we run for it or we find a place to hide."

I could not hold back a laugh. "Hide?" I said incredulously. I spread my hands, taking in the crumbled stones all around us. "Where do you propose we go? The only way out of here is through those walls – unless you plan to find a rift down into the Underdark and hope that even Talonites are not mad enough to follow us down into those tunnels."

Nadiya lifted her head again. It took her a visible effort. "There…are tunnels here?" she asked.

I hoped that I was not going to have to knock her out and strap her to the dragon. Perhaps he could not fly with her on his back, but from the looks of him, he could at least walk. Carrying her myself was out of the question. I could not carry her and fight at the same time. "Yes," I said shortly. "The sandstone beneath here is riddled with caverns. Some of them lie just beneath the surface. Others lead much further down."

The Bedine stared into the middle distance. "A tunnel beneath a city," I heard her murmur. Her forehead furrowed. Then she groped for her sword. She struggled briefly to lift it until she had its point in the sand. Then, slowly, with a grimace of pained concentration, she began dragging its point in the dirt. "A tunnel," she half-whispered. The point of her scimitar made a rough turn. "And buildings. And…mountains like fingers…there." She lowered her hand, letting the hilt of her scimitar drop limply into her open palm as if she could no longer hold it up, and nodded towards her sketch. "Look, here," she said, to no one in particular. "Does this look familiar?"

Brown stretched his neck out, peering down at the sketch in the dirt curiously. "What is that?" he asked.

Her eyes flicked towards him, then away again. "A map," she said, her voice as warm and inviting as a bared blade. Whatever affection she might have had for him before, it appeared to have vanished with the revelation of his true nature.

I stepped closer. The thing she had drawn was indeed a map. I saw the shapes of buildings, and mountains, and in the midst of the buildings, a spiraling circle. "Where did you find that?" I asked, intrigued.

She made as if to shrug, then stopped with a wince. Her hand crept towards her injured shoulder before falling. "I saw it in my ancestor's tomb," she said. She glanced at me. Some color came back into her face. "Did…did Ali tell you the story? Of the phaerimm?"

I smiled grimly. I remembered her family's tale. It had nearly killed me. Perhaps I should have left them to their fate, but at the time their sheikh had been threatening to kill one whom I had taken to be a friend of mine, and at the time I had not cared to let that happen. It was not a mistake I would make again. "Yes," I replied. "Mind you, he ruined the flow of the story by peppering it with needless threats. But I recall it."

She shot me a hurt look, though gods knew why. Her brother had asked for my help with a seemingly impossible task while simultaneously insulting me and threatening myself and my companions. I thought I might be excused a little hostility.

Brown was looking back and forth between us. "Ali who?" he asked, sounding perplexed. "What story? Nobody told _me_ any story."

Ishiko was frowning. "There a secret tunnel somewhere that I don't know about?" she asked.

Nadiya looked down at her map. "If we are where I think we are, perhaps there is," she said. She took a deep, rasping breath, then coughed again. "A…a very long time ago, you see, my people ran afoul of a lich. He had built his tomb near an oasis, but we did not know it at first. We had wandered ever since the s-sorcerers of Nas'r," and here she paused to give me an awkward sideways glance, "…or the Netherese, or whoever they were, had turned the Anauroch into desert with their wars. We thought we had found a home, and we settled there until one day…the lich woke and began to send his minions against us. He wanted to kill us and turn us into his undead servants. He almost succeeded until the great al-Rashid…my ancestor…went into the caverns below the desert to find one of the phaerimm."

Brown cocked his head like a cat that had just caught sight of a piece of string. "Ooh. I get it. You think the caverns were here?"

Nadiya frowned down at her hands. "Perhaps," she answered noncommittally. "Certainly…there was a phaerimm, and certainly it hated the mages who had destroyed the Anauroch-"

I interrupted. "The mages were not responsible for this desert, princess," I told her bluntly. "The phaerimm were."

She shook her head. "No," she said stubbornly. "That is not..." Slowly, her words trailed off. Her frown remained. It looked close to taking up permanent residence on her face.

I waited for her continue. When she did not, I gave her a verbal nudge. "Not what?" I prompted.

She looked up again. Her face looked sick and troubled. "Why?" she asked weakly. "Why would the phaerimm…do that?"

Suddenly, I smiled. "Good," I said, pleased. "You are asking questions." She shot me a look which implied that she more interested in a clear answer than in praise, which was, I supposed, only reasonable. She could be rational when she chose to be. "As to that, I believe the phaerimm acted out of a mix of revenge and self-preservation. As the mages of the Empire drew more and more on the natural magic of the area, they were unwittingly disrupting the magical fields the phaerimm depended on for their survival." I shrugged. "The phaerimm retaliated by casting lifedrain dweomers on the land. Drought and famine struck. War and civil unrest followed."

The little Bedine did not respond. She stared down at her hands, lying limply in her lap. Her silence lasted so long that Ishiko eventually leaned forward, laying two fingers on the girl's forearm. "You all right?" she asked gruffly.

Nadiya's head jerked. She drew in a sudden, shaking breath. "I am fine," she said, drawing her arm away fractionally.

Ishiko looked at her for a moment longer. "Are you?" she asked flatly.

The younger woman lifted her chin. "Yes," she said, in a tone of voice which suggested she would hit the next person who asked her that question, hole in her shoulder or no hole in her shoulder. "Regardless," she went on with her story, as if she had never left it. "Regardless, al-Rashid...he asked for the phaerimm's help to defeat the lich. It agreed. It gave him the power to nullify the lich's magic."

Brown had settled down on his haunches and was listening avidly. "What did it want in exchange?" he breathed.

The girl shrugged awkwardly. "The stories do not say," she said. "The death of the lich, I assume."

I grunted skeptically. "That seems a great deal of power to rid the world of one more Netherese mage," I observed. Then I smirked. "Especially because your family never actually succeeded in killing the lich."

Nadiya shot me a baleful look. "The bargain was made centuries ago," she snapped defensively. "I was not there. I do not know."

I held up my hands in a placating gesture. Gods only knew if she might still be able to find the strength somewhere to hurl her pig-sticker at my head. "I am not doubting your veracity, princess," I said mildly. Then I added, "Only the veracity of whoever told you that story."

Brown interrupted cheerily, all thoughts of danger evidently fled in the face of the prospect of a story. "So what happened after al-Rashid got his gift?" he asked.

"He came back and used it to defeat the lich," Nadiya answered, her voice terse. "When al-Rashid died, he commanded that the way to the phaerimm be carved on the walls of his tomb so that we would always know where to find our ancient benefactor."

Brown glanced around. "And the phaerimm was here?" he asked nervously, as if half-expecting to see one pop out of the ruined pavement.

Nadiya shrugged her uninjured shoulder. "The phaerimm was supposed to lie beneath a city, and the city I saw on al-Rashid's map lay just below a drawing of something that looked like those mountains to the north."

Ishiko raised an eyebrow. "There any other cities near the Spires?" she asked.

The wyrmling shook his head. "No," he said. "Nothing. If she saw a city near the Spires, it had to have been Orofin." He looked back to Nadiya. "So you think the phaerimm will help us?" he asked warily.

She snorted. "Unlikely," she said.

The dragon blinked. "Why not?"

Nadiya grimaced. "Because the phaerimm is dead," she said bluntly.

The wyrmling seemed taken aback. "Um," he said. "All right. How does this help us, exactly?"

The little Bedine let her head fall back against the wall, closing her eyes. "It died recently," she said wearily. "So perhaps the creatures here do not know that it is dead."

Brown continued to stare at her. "I still don't follow," he said helplessly.

I snickered. "And here Xanos thought dragons were supposed to be intelligent," I muttered.

Brown shot me a hot-eyed look. "Shut up, half-orc," he said snippily.

Ishiko sighed. "Children," she chided. "Save it for the Talonites."

Without opening her eyes, Nadiya spoke. "My brother went to the phaerimm once," she said. "He said that the way there was dangerous, but when he got to the place where it had been, he found no other living thing to threaten him."

The implication did make a certain amount of sense. I found myself nodding. "Phaerimm are very dangerous beings," I mused. "And they live for a very long time – long enough for every intelligent creature in the vicinity to know where it is and not to come near it. If it died recently, then that may still hold."

Nadiya nodded. A tangle of dark hair fell across her face. She did not bother to push it back. "Goats do not wander into a lion's den, even if there is no sign of the lion," she said, her voice tired. "It is enough for them to know that there was a lion there once." A faint smile flickered over her full lips. "Perhaps the lion will do us one last service and keep our enemies away while we rest."

I watched her a moment longer. Then, abruptly, I turned to the dragon. "Do you have any idea where this lair might be?" I asked.

Brown blinked at me owlishly. "I...I think so," he said hesitantly. He looked back at Nadiya's crude map. "I mean…if we're looking for some kind of circular structure, then that narrows it down a lot. The Netherese seem to have liked straight lines." He tilted his head in thought for a moment. "There is a big stone circle on the ground a ways in, towards the tower," he added. "It even has writing on it, though I've never stopped to read it. I think it might be the right place."

I looked at the sun. It was climbing. Time was passing. Too much had already passed. "Is it closer than the walls?" I asked.

The dragon closed his eyes for a moment, as if summoning his bird's eye view of the city from memory. "I...I think so," he said hesitantly, after a long pause. "Half a day, maybe? It's hard to be sure. The ruins are thicker the further in you go. That might slow us down."

It might slow us down, but Nadiya would already be doing that with her injuries, so in the end we would be losing no particular advantage. On the other hand, the thicker ruins might slow our enemies down and make it harder for them to find us. It was not as great an advantage as I would have liked, but a wise man took opportunities where he found them. "An excellent plan," I said heartily. "Full of a hundred possible repercussions and at least as many ways to die. What the Hells. Let's try it." After all, we could hardly get more doomed. I rubbed my hands together briskly. Dried blood flaked from them. It was disgusting, but there was nothing for it, for now. I would have to content myself with merely imagining a bath. With longing. Deep and abiding longing. "Dragon, you take the lead. Princess, can you stand?"

He goggled at me. "What, so you're going to trust me?" he squeaked. "Just like that?"

"Ghufran did say you were a good guide," Ishiko interjected before I could respond. "Best she ever had." With her monotone voice, even praise sounded like indifference.

Brown's head reared back. He blinked again. "She did, didn't she?" Hesitantly, he relaxed. "All right," he said then, and rose to his feet. "All right," he repeated, his voice gaining confidence. He turned with a surprising lack of grace. His feet all had five finger-like toes, and they splayed out under his weight, giving him an awkward, flat-footed waddle. They also appeared far too large for him, as if, like a puppy, he had been born with feet nearly the size of an adult's and had yet to grow into them. "Follow me."

I waited for the women to go ahead – one of them because I did not trust her not to stab me in the back and the other because I suspected that it was only a matter of time before she fell over and I would rather be in a position to catch her if that was the case.

Nadiya limped slowly after the dragon. She kept a safe distance between them but hardly seemed to notice him beyond that. Her frown was pensive, indicating that she may have been snared in a particularly troublesome line of thought. Ishiko drew up next to me. She was a tall woman. Her head nearly reached my shoulder, and her voice, when she spoke, was pitched low enough that I did not think it would have reached any ears but mine. "If he leads us wrong-" she said warningly.

I waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, yes," I drawled. I injected a note of boredom into my voice. "Do not worry. If that happens, you get to kill him."

She glanced at me sideways. "Him?" she echoed. She shook her head. "No, mage. You're the one who trusted him." Her smile was as cool as a knife. "If he betrays us, I get to kill _you_."


	42. Chapter 42

The dragon was hiding. Again.

It had its head buried in the sand up to its shoulders and its wings tightly folded against its back. It appeared to be trembling. Faintly, I heard a muffled moan.

I stared at the spectacle wearily. All of the stories I had ever heard of dragons had suggested that they would be fearless. Once again, it seemed that the stories I had been told had had little to do with the truth.

A wash of dizziness came over me. I closed my eyes. Contrary to all expectation, this only made my head spin more. I opened them again to see Ishiko watching the dragon almost as wearily as I was. When I met her eyes, she shrugged and lifted her hand. There was a vial of something in it, which she drank quickly, corked, and tucked into her belt pouch. Her skin shone with sweat, and her hand seemed to be shaking. It was probably the midday heat. It could not be helped. We risked sun poisoning if we did not take shelter, but if we stopped to take shelter our enemies would certainly find us.

Xanos limped past me. "Wyrmling," he said to the heap of scales and shame on the sandy ground. "Wyrmling. Get up." He reached the creature and nudged its flank with the toe of his boot. "Get up, or I swear I will turn this sand to glass and encase you in it so that the Zhentarim will be able to behold your cowardice in perpetuity."

The sand shifted. Dusty talons parted, revealing part of a scaled snout. The dragon's eye blinked uneasily, dislodging a few more grains of sand. "A-are they gone?" it asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Yes. Now get up, or I swear on my mother's grave that I will leave you here as bait for the next batch of Talonites."

Reluctantly, the creature stood up. Sand sifted off of a body as stocky and muscular as an ox's, a far cry from the slight, gawky boy it had once claimed to be. Standing, its shoulders did not quite reach the sorcerer's waist, though its head rose much higher on its snakelike neck. If the dragon lifted its head to its full height, it might almost have been able to look the half-orc in the eye. It did not, however, seem inclined to try. "S-sorry," it mumbled, its head held low in evident embarrassment. "I…I just get scared sometimes. I'm sorry. I'm no good in a fight. I'm no good for anything. I'm sorry."

Xanos stared down at it. He looked as if he might be coming up with some new threat, or perhaps an insult. Then, to my surprise, he sighed and turned away. "Enough," he said. His voice had a tired rasp. "Stop apologizing and start walking. We do not have the time for this."

The dragon nodded dejectedly. "Sor-" It stopped, looking sideways at the sorcerer. "Er. Never mind," it mumbled, and began to lumber away. It had a clumsy, flat-footed way of walking, like a cross between a duckling and a puppy. "It's not far now. We should be there well before nightfall."

I stared after the creature, my lips tight. Furiously, I tried to quash any inklings of sympathy for it. It had lied to me. I had worried for this creature's welfare, listening to its rambling, confided in it, and all along it had been lying to me about who and what it was. Perhaps any friendship between us had been a lie, too.

The thought was bitter. Was nothing in this world what it seemed? Was everything a lie, or just most things?

Lowering my head, I walked around a charred lump in the half-melted remnants of black armor. It was still smoking, and the sand around it was churned black with char and burned blood. Nearby, two more corpses lay at the end of a trail of ash. They, too, were smoking. The air smelled like hot metal and scorched meat.

_At least that was not a lie_, I thought. The image of the sorcerer wrapped in flame like a djinn still lingered in my mind's eye no matter how hard I tried to push it away. No, his power was no lie. The thought was almost as disturbing as it was comforting. Those men had died almost as soon as Xanos had seen them. I could see why magic was dangerous, but under the circumstances I could not bring myself to hate it.

We walked on. I listening to the ringing in my ears, blinked spots away from my eyes, and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.

Somewhere off in the ruins, something screamed. It sounded like an animal, and far away. Not a threat, I thought. Not an immediate one, anyway.

I heard an answering yelp and turned to see the dragon huddled on the ground again. This time there was no sand to hide under, only stone, so it cowered with its belly to the ground, its forepaws over its eyes, and its wings awkwardly tented over its head.

I stared at it glumly. Then, because we did not seem to be going anywhere at the moment, I decided to sit down. That is to say, my knees decided it for me and I opted to go along. They buckled, and I dropped heavily to the ground, trying to blink away blobs of blackness from the corners of my vision.

My head was pounding. I no longer felt fevered, only cold, which was strange because my heart was racing. Nor could not seem to breathe in enough air to content my body's demands for it.

It occurred to me that I should try to stand. The trouble was that I could not seem to make my limbs obey any of my commands. It was as if, having found an opportunity to rest, my body had seized it and summarily shut down all capacity for movement.

I felt more than heard or saw someone approach. Fingers touched my shoulder. "You all right?" Ishiko's voice asked quietly.

_I am fine, _I thought, but when I tried to say the words I found that I was too out of breath to speak. Instead, I nodded. The movement made my light-headedess increase, and I found myself suddenly sitting back on my heels. With an effort, I braced my hands on my knees and swallowed back the bile that had suddenly appeared in my throat. _No, _I thought hazily. _Not fine. _Mutely, I shook my head.

"All right." I heard leather creak. "Sorcerer. Come here. Girl can't walk. Needs rest."

Footsteps approached. "Just a little further, princess, and then you can rest," Xanos told me. I heard and felt him kneel, becoming a large, warm presence at my shoulder. An arm went around my back, urging me up. "Up you get," he urged. Halfway up, my knees gave way again, and I half-collapsed against him. I felt him stagger backward half a step before catching his balance. His arm tightened, keeping me from falling further down. "Or not," he added, his voice strained. "As the case may be."

I would have liked to help him by at least refraining from falling over on him, but it felt as if my entire body was suddenly as inert and heavy as lead. "Sorry," I mumbled into his robes. After getting shot, spewing bodily fluids all over my companions, and staggering, half-clothed and bloody, around the landscape as if I had taken too many hits on an opium pipe, I was beyond embarrassment. I expected that if I lived through today, I would look back on the day's events in mortification. As it stood, I did not think I even had enough blood left in me to blush.

He made an annoyed noise. "Save your breath," he growled. I felt him shift his grip on my shoulders. "Ishiko. Help me with her." I felt another pair of hands on my legs, and then, after some fumbling and manhandling and a grunt of effort from the sorcerer, I found myself being roughly hoisted up into the air, to be carried like a babe in arms.

Disoriented, I made a feeble noise of protest. It died shamefully quickly. I was so tired, and it felt so good to lie back and let someone else do the walking. Giving in, I closed my eyes and let my head droop against the sorcerer's chest. He was very warm.

My reprieve was not to last. After several paces, Xanos came to a stop. "Dragon," I heard him rumble. "Get up. I have a job for you."

My eyes snapped open in alarm. I tried to struggle, but I was as weak as a kitten, and the sorcerer restrained me easily. "What-" I began.

Brown echoed me. "W-what?" he asked uneasily. I heard the rustle of wings and scrape of claws, both of them far too close by. "What is it?"

Xanos held me out slightly. "Carry her," he said bluntly. "She cannot walk."

Panic rose. I squirmed. "No need," I blurted. "I am well now. I can walk."

Xanos looked at me for a moment, his face expressionless. "You are a terrible liar, do you know that?" he said conversationally. "Just so that you are aware." He looked back at the dragon. "I will put her on your back. I reiterate: let her fall and I will see if I have enough grip strength to strangle a dragon. Understood?"

I shook my head. "No," I insisted frantically. I did not want to be near that thing. "I do not trust it."

A scaled snout appeared, uncomfortably close. I felt heat radiating off the beast, saw the fiery yellow glow of its eyes, and wished I had the strength to strike it away. "Nadiya…it's still me," it said gently, in a voice I both did and did not recognize. "It's Brown. I'm still the same person you knew. I'm still your friend."

I stared at it. I felt my eyes fill with tears. "No," I grated. "You are not."

The dragon shrank away, lowering its eyes, but it did not relent. "I _am_," it insisted stubbornly, its words almost tumbling over one another in its haste to speak. "Listen, I'm sorry I didn't tell you what I am. I would have, but at first I didn't know if I could trust you, and then I trusted you but I…I didn't know how to tell you. I was afraid you'd be angry with me."

Angry? I was furious. My heart pounded, and my head pounded in time with it. "I am angry now," I said harshly.

The dragon hung its head. "I know," it mumbled to the ground. "I'm sorry."

After an awkward pause, I looked away from the creature. I did not know what to say. I did not even particularly want to talk to this thing. I did not like to talk to liars.

Xanos shifted impatiently. "Enough," he said grimly. "Here, dragon. Take her." Over my weak objections, he leaned over and settled me onto the dragon's back. Seeing little choice in the matter – the thing's upraised wings effectively had me caged – I sank down, curling onto my side in the limited space available to me and trying not to touch more of the beast than I had to. "Be careful not to make any sudden movements," the sorcerer warned, straightening. In the daylight, his eyes were the same pale gold as the sun, and his lashes cast long shadows over his gaunt cheeks. "If you make her fall, I will make you regret it."

I saw muscles ripple in the dragon's long neck as it twisted its head to give Xanos an indignant stare. "What do you take me for, one of the _Tiathar_?" it scoffed. Sniffing, it faced forward again. "I won't let the little one fall, don't you worry."

Xanos nodded. "Good," he said. Stepping back, he gestured at the way ahead. He did not look at me . "Now get moving."

The first lurching step sent pain scything through my head. The next steps were almost as bad. The creature had a plodding, awkward gait that made its back sway precipitously from side to side. I held on, half-blinded by the sun and the pain and exhaustion. The dragon's scales felt almost uncomfortably hot to the touch. They were an unsettling mix of smooth and rough, their mottled brown centers softer and more uneven while their edges felt almost like polished metal. And then there was the smell, like oiled metal, rising all around me. I felt as if I was trapped inside a moving lamp.

At a certain point, there was a sound like falling rocks, off in the distance. The dragon froze. Its wings went rigid. Beneath me, I felt its muscles tense, as if it was about to dive for cover again.

I sucked in a worried breath. If the dragon tried to hide, I might find myself buried up to the neck in sand. "Brown," I said sharply.

At the sound of my voice, the dragon's wings gave a little twitch of surprise, then relaxed. "Right," it said shakily. Swallowing, it bobbed its head. "Right," it said again, a little more confidently. Taking a breath, it began walking again. "Sorry," it said over its shoulder. "I just got startled. Better now. Don't worry. I said I won't let you fall. I won't. I give you my word. On the souls of my honored ancestors, I do."

I did not answer. Inwardly, I scoffed. Dragons were known to be capricious, and this one had already lied. I knew exactly what its word was worth.

I did not know how long we walked after that. One lurching step blurred into another, then another. For a while I did not even feel that, not until I opened my eyes and found myself curled into a tight ball on the dragon's back with the sun a little lower in the sky and no memory of what had happened in the intervening time.

I lurched up in alarm, cursing myself for having given in to exhaustion and let myself sleep. Then I realized that we had stopped moving.

"Well, it's here," the dragon announced nervously. I felt his shoulder bunch and heard a scraping sound as he pawed at something on the ground. "A stone circle. Like you said. I don't know for sure if it's the right one, but it looks…well, it does look like it should lead somewhere, doesn't it?"

I heard footsteps – Xanos. They were too heavy to be Ishiko's, and in any case Ishiko wore leather, not rustling silk and soft linen. "It does indeed," the sorcerer breathed. "Well done, wyrmling. Perhaps you are not as useless as I thought."

The dragon's head lifted. Something in the gesture spoke of surprise. "Oh," it said. "Well. Good. I'm glad. I think." It glanced back at me. "You can get off now, Nadiya," it added. "I mean, if you want to. If you don't, you can stay. That's all right, too. Up to you. It's fine. Really. Am I babbling? I think I'm babbling. Sorry. I'll stop. Um. So. Would you like stay there or get down?"

I looked around me, bewildered. I was surrounded by wing on almost all sides. Unlike any bird I had seen, the dragon's wings were attached to its body from shoulders to tail, though they tapered dramatically towards the end of its tail, becoming little more than fins by the time they reached the tip. "How?" I asked blankly.

The dragon paused. "Oh," it said. It twisted its head around to peer at me again. "Er. I don't know. I've never had a person on my back before. It's new to me, too." It cocked its head in thought for a moment. "Try sliding down my tail," it suggested. Then, "Ow, no, not there, don't step there, move your foot a little…ah, there. Much better. All right. _Now_ slide."

I hit the sand heavily, though it was not a long fall. My legs were just not up to holding my weight. Behind me, I heard the dragon's tail scrape across the ground as it moved away. I thought that it was being courteous and giving me space. I could have screamed. I did not want it to be courteous. I did not want it to be nice. I did not want it to be Brown, because if it was that would be far too confusing.

Wearily, I rested my elbows on my knees and let my head sink into my hands. It was most likely only my imagination that I could feel my forehead throbbing against my fingers.

"Amazing," I heard Xanos say. Boots scraped. Cloth rustled. Fingers whispered across stone. "These runes…if I am not mistaken, they predate this city. Gods! They may even predate Netheril. They are primitive. Very primitive. But powerful. Very powerful." He laughed. "Nine Hells, what a find! Here, Ishiko – dust that section off. Yes, that one there. Good. Now let me see it."

_What is he going on about? _My forehead furrowing in a perplexed frown, I lifted my head enough to peer through my fingers. Then I lifted my head the rest of the way up, blinking at the sight before me.

A white stone circle stretched out before me, half-buried in the sand and surrounded by a line of ruined pillars, most of which had crumbled to no more than their footings. The circle was many paces across. I thought I could have lain on top of it with my feet at one end and my arms stretched over my head and my fingers still would not have reached the center. Stranger still, lines were carved into the stone disc, curving lines which began at even intervals along the circle's outer edge and then all curved inward to meet in its center, where a flat, polished, semi-translucent gem was set. The gem was a dark reddish-orange with faint green streaks.

I looked down. The border of the circle lay not far from my feet. Sand obscured some of it, but what I saw of it was carved with strange symbols.

I looked up and blinked. Xanos was kneeling at the other end of the circle, one knee against the ground and the other bent, his forearm propped against it. His hands were covered in dust, as were his robes below the knee, and yet, inexplicably, he was grinning at the stone circle with a pure delight I had never seen in him before. He looked for all the world like a young boy who had just been given a new toy. A towering hulk of a boy whose mother dressed him very strangely and who not long ago had killed an armored man with his bare hands, but still, for all that…just a boy.

I blinked again and rubbed my eyes. _Now I know that I am unwell_, I thought. _I am hallucinating._

The dragon had padded halfway out onto the disc, bright-eyed and with its snout close to the ground. Every so often it snorted, and its breath blew sand from the stone in tiny waves. Had it had ears, I thought they would have been pricked forward with curiosity. "What does it say?" it asked.

Xanos glanced up briefly. "I am trying to find that out," he said. Then he looked up again. He raised an eyebrow. "What in the Hells are you doing?"

The beast lifted its head and blinked at the sorcerer. "Reading?" he suggested. Its tail thumped irritably against the stone, raising a small cloud of dust. "I _can_ read, you know. I didn't lie about that."

The sorcerer gave the dragon one last, amused look. "Very well," he said, turning his attention back to the carvings on the stone. "But I would advise against doing it there."

I did not know how a dragon could pout, but that was exactly what this one here appeared to be doing. Pouting. "Why not?" it demanded.

Xanos rapped his knuckles against the stone. A hollow echo sounded. "That is why."

The dragon blinked. "Oh," it said. It took a hurried step back, then another. Curiously, it tilted its head this way and that, studying the stone as if seeing it for the first time. "You mean…it's empty underneath? It opens?"

The sorcerer snorted. "How else do you expect to reach a phaerimm's underground lair?" he asked derisively. "By getting sucked into the earth like water into a sponge? _Yes_, it opens. It must." He paused, his eyes scanning the stone at his feet. Then he smiled. "And I know how."

Ishiko raised an eyebrow. She had been standing off to the side with her arms crossed over her chest, watching but saying nothing. Now she spoke. "How?" she asked.

Xanos touched the carvings on the stone. The gesture was peculiarly gentle, almost affectionate. "These look like astrological symbols," he explained. "Pictures of the constellations, phases of the moon, the sun at certain positions in the sky, and so forth." He looked up, squinting against the late afternoon sun. "What phase is Selune in now?" he asked suddenly.

Ishiko followed his gaze. "Crescent, I think," she answered.

"Yes, but is it waxing or waning?"

The dragon reached up to scratch the side of its neck with one long, black foretalon. "Waxing?" it ventured. "I think…yes, there was a new moon not long ago. I think it must be waxing now. Why?"

Xanos pushed himself to his feet. "Good. That will narrow it down," he said. He began to walk along the circle's edge, peering down at the carvings with narrowed eyes and occasionally stopping to sweep some sand out of the way with his foot. He gestured at Ishiko and Brown. "Quickly," he ordered perfunctorily. "Look for a symbol that looks like a waxing crescent moon, both of you."

I watched as the others spread out, heads down. I wondered if I should help them, but when I tried to push myself up, my arms shook like tent poles in a windstorm. I gave up and resigned myself to watching.

The dragon was the first to call out. "I found it!" it exclaimed, pointing excitedly. Its forepaw had five long toes, four straight and one off to the side like a thumb. In some ways, it looked unsettlingly like a hand. "Er. Quite a few of them, actually."

Xanos came around the edge of the circle to see. His limp had gotten more pronounced since I had last noticed it. "Excellent. Show me," he said, and stopped at the dragon's side. He inspected the area where the dragon was pointing. "A-ha. This one is promising." He touched something with the toe of his boot. "That looks like Belnimbra's Belt." He looked up. "Where was the Belt last night?"

Ishiko pointed. "Over there," she offered. "Eastern sky."

Xanos rubbed his hands together almost gleefully. "Excellent," he repeated. "If I am reading this correctly – which of course I am – then it appears that Tymora is smiling on us for once."

Ishiko raised her eyebrows. "Why's that?"

The sorcerer stepped back, spreading his hands as if framing the stone circle between them. "According to those symbols, this door will open at certain times of day, with those times varying according to the phase of the moon and the position of certain constellations," he said. "In this case, it seems that when the moon is waxing, the Belt is in the east, and Mystra's Star is in the north, the door will open at sunset." He shrugged. "It is simple enough." A smirk flashed across his face. "If you know what to look for."

Ishiko looked at him, her face a neutral mask. "Think we'll be safe until then?" she asked.

The sorcerer stared back at her, his own expression mocking. "Xanos knows most things," he said. "But even I cannot predict the future." His expression changed, though it was hard to decipher exactly how. "If you are looking for a diviner, you have the wrong sorcerer."

Ishiko nodded. Then, without changing her expression, she turned and crossed the sand to me. "Let's get you out of the open," she said, and offered me her hand.

I stared at the hand in surprise. "Er," I said. Hesitantly, I accepted the offered help. Her hand was bone-thin, but strong. "Thank you."

Again, Ishiko nodded. "Welcome," she said, and helped me to one of the more intact pillars. While I slid down against the rough stone to sit again, she sat cross-legged, facing me. Then she reached for her crossbow. "You know how to use this thing?" she asked.

I flushed. Then I shook my head. "No."

I saw a smile touch the corners of her lips, there and gone so quickly that it almost seemed a trick of the light. "All right," she said, and held the weapon out to me, its point facing her. She placed the fingers of my left hand on the mechanism. Then she wrapped the fingers of my right hand on the hilt. "First thing you need to learn is how to hold it…"


	43. Chapter 43

The sun inched down along the dome of the sky, turning orange and then red as it neared the horizon.

Xanos sat with his back to a ruined pillar. He had bandaged his thigh and now sat motionless, one forearm draped across his bended knee and his other leg stretched out in front of him. He was not asleep – I could see his eyes flash green now and then as they gathered in and reflected what was left of the sun's light.

Ishiko sat next to me, skimming an oilcloth across the edge of her hand axe. She did not speak, and had not spoken in some time.

The dragon was some distance away, curled around the base of one of the pillars which surrounded the stone circle. Its horned chin was resting on its front feet. I could not tell whether it was asleep or awake. Its eyes were open, but some cloudy membrane covered them, obscuring the beast's pupil and dimming the gleam of its eyes. It did not blink, and had not done so for some time.

I had slept a little, but after jerking awake at every little noise, I had eventually given up on getting any real rest. Now I sat and dozed on and off, my head hot with pain and my eyes gritty with exhaustion.

After an indeterminate time, I jerked out of my latest half-sleep, startled by something I could not put a finger on at first.

Then it happened again – a deep, far-off clunk, and then an echo. It was coming from the phaerimm's lair.

The sun's light slanted low over the stone circle, and the gem in its center had taken on a bloody orange hue. As I watched, the red grew more and more translucent. Then, as the light passed over it, the gem simply...vanished. In its place, a pitch black circle of empty space yawned.

Then, with the grinding of stone against stone, the curving segments of the circle began to move. Almost bladelike, they rotated away from the hole, some unknown force pulling them back towards the circle's edge. The hole in the circle's center grew by inches at first, but as the stone withdrew further, the hole grew faster.

The last of the stone blades pulled back with a final-sounding boom. A rush of stale, dusty air rose out of the pit as if in a hurry to escape.

Her hand on her axe, Ishiko stood warily and crossed to the hole's edge. She peered down. "Well, what do you know?" she said blandly. "The mage was right."

The mage in question snorted and shot her a haughty stare. "Xanos is always right," he said. Stiffly, he pushed himself to his feet. A sphere of light appeared in the air above his open palm as he crossed the sand to join her. "Can you see anything?"

She shook her head. "Too dark."

"Not for long." The sorcerer lowered his hand. The witch light floated down, shimmering. It illuminated the edge of the pit and one side of a smooth

Over by one of the columns, the dragon uncurled itself and rose. It spread the toes on its forefeet, curled its talons into the sand and leaned back in a stretch eerily reminiscent of a cat's. It tried to unfold and stretch its wings, too, but the column got in its way, and ones of its wings banged against the column and scraped along the stone before the dragon finally moved sideways and pulled it free. The creature winced. "Great. Now I have to get used to having these again," I heard it mutter. Then it shook itself and padded over to the newly formed pit, slowing down warily as it neared the edge. "What's in there?" it asked nervously. "Is it safe? I don't hear anything." It raised its head and sniffed. "Or smell anything. Do you smell anything?"

"Not all of us have your nose, wyrmling."

"Well, no. But you still might have smelled something. Half-orcs have a keener sense of smell than humans do. Everybody knows that."

I had not known that business about half-orc noses, though it did explain a few things, such as how Xanos had known exactly where the city's slave pens were. I supposed I would have to add this knowledge to the growing lists of things I had been ignorant of. Grimacing, I reached behind me and used the column to lever myself to my feet. Then, shaking my head to clear it, I staggered over. My legs felt stronger, my breathing a little easier, though my head still pounded with every step, making my steps as slow and hesitant as an old woman's.

When I reached the others, they were all looking into the pit as the sorcerer's ball of light floated down and down, splashing its light over its surroundings like water. The pit was deep, carved out of a rough, sand-colored stone that grew darker towards the pit's floor. Crumbling stone jutted out from the walls of the pit, a spiraling stair seemingly carved out of the bedrock itself. Entire sections of the stair were missing, though perhaps missing was the wrong word for it. It looked as if they were still there. They were just littering the floor of the pit instead of being attached to the wall where they should have been.

All four of us peered downwards. The dragon, unsurprisingly, was the first to break the silence. "How do we get down?" it asked.

Ishiko frowned. "Looks like we'll need to climb," she said.

Xanos held up a finger. "I have just the solution for that," he said. He reached in one of the numerous pockets of his mantle and drew out a coil of what appeared to be a string. Then he began to uncoil it, and as I watched, it seemed to lengthen and grow, unwinding into span after span of fine, silken gray rope.

Ishiko looked him up and down, her eyebrows raised. "Where were you hiding fifty feet of rope?"

Suddenly, the sorcerer grinned. "If I said, "In my pants," would you slap me?" he asked.

The other woman's expression was bland. "Yes."

"Then I had best not say it, hadn't I?" He laughed at the expression on her face and shook his head. "None of you have any sense of humor," he sighed. "How is Xanos to have any fun when surrounded by such sour and humorless souls?" Then he walked towards the nearest column, working the rope between his hands to undo its kinks. "The rope is elven," he explained over his shoulder. "Light, strong, and shrinks roughly seventy percent in size when properly coiled." He knelt, looping the rope around the column before tying it off. His movements were swift and sure, as if he had done such things many times before. "I found it in an Earlanni tomb, if you must know."

"In what kind of tomb?

"Elven," the sorcerer answered absent-mindedly. "Of the nation of Ascalhorn in the High Forest. They were contemporaries of Netheril. Taught the humans all they knew about magic, in fact. Then they ended up in a civil war and eliminated most of their population. Ruins such as the one I found are all that is left." He stood and gave the rope an experimental yank. Then, running the rope through his fingertips, he returned to the pit. He held it out to Ishiko. "Ladies first," he said dulcetly.

She took it after a suspicious pause. "What's this?"

He smiled at her. At least, his lips were parted and his teeth were showing. "You are going down there first," he said, still in that pleasant tone of voice. He raised an eyebrow at her expression. "What? I fail to see the problem. You should be used to deep, dark pits."

"So says the half-orc," Ishiko said flatly. She looked at him for a moment longer, then shook her head and gathered the rope in her hands. "Fine," she said shortly. "Probably safer down there anyway."

"No doubt," Xanos agreed. "Oh, speaking of which…" He held out his hand. "Your crossbow, please."

She handed it to him wordlessly and stalked to the edge of the pit, casting the rope down ahead of her. Then she turned and began to lower herself over the edge, her face set.

I watched the other woman's head disappear from view. Mindful of Brown's words about half-orc hearing, I kept my voice very low. "Why did you do that?" I asked.

Xanos glanced at me. Then, without looking at me, he knelt. "Take this," he said, and thrust the crossbow at me. He lowered his voice. "As for your question…would you rather I climbed down and left her here to push you over the edge the moment my back was turned? Or cut the rope on one of us? Or shot us where we stand?"

Taking the crossbow hesitantly, I studied his profile. The shadows of the coming night were carving deep hollows in his face, leaving the curve of his cheekbones to stand out as high and sharp as a knife's blade. "You are a very suspicious person," I observed diffidently.

He snorted. "I am a very alive person," he retorted softly. "And I would prefer to stay that way, if it is all the same to you." Without waiting for my response, he stood. "What do you see?" he called down into the pit.

There was a moment's silence before Ishiko's answer came. "Bones," she shouted. Her voice echoed off of the stone. "Animals, mostly. Small ones." There was another long pause, then: "There's some kind of a door."

Xanos grunted. "What kind?"

"Stone," came the answer. "Big. Can't tell how it opens. Or if it opens." I heard a scraping noise. "Looks like it's got more of your runes on it."

The sorcerer's eyebrows shot up. "Interesting," he murmured. He looked at me. "Do you know anything about this?"

I would have liked to say yes. I was growing tired of feeling lost and ignorant. The situation being what it was, however, I could only say, "No. I know that al-Rashid gained entrance to the phaerimm's lair somehow, but…" I spread my hands helplessly. "If anyone knew how, they would not tell me."

He grunted again, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Wait here," he said suddenly. He crossed to the column where he had fixed the rope and untied it. Then he returned to me and knelt. "Watch," he instructed, and, more slowly than he had tied the rope the first time, he looped the free end of the rope over and under and around in some kind of complicated slipknot. "Did you see how I did that?"

I had tied down enough tents and hung enough foodstuffs and water jugs to know my way around a length of rope, but the knot he had tied was unfamiliar to me. I shook my head. "Do it again," I said shortly. He obliged. Carefully, I watched his motions. His hands were very large, but they were also very long-fingered, and they made the knot with surprising agility. I thought I was beginning to see how he did it, but…"Again," I said. Wordlessly, the sorcerer undid and redid the knot. I frowned, not taking my eyes off of his hands. "Why are we doing this?" I asked absently.

"From the looks of you, you are in no state to climb. That is why I will go down ahead," he said. Once again, he showed me the knot. "Then you will tie this rope around your waist, just so, and the dragon will lower you."

I blinked and looked up, startled. I lowered my voice to a whisper. "Are you certain-"

"Yes," the sorcerer interrupted curtly. He caught my skeptical expression. "Trust me, princess," he said softly. "He is too young to have some long-term agenda, and brass dragons are incapable of malice. He will not intentionally do us harm."

I scowled dubiously. "What about unintentionally?" I hissed back.

He laughed shortly. "Yes, well…that is another matter," he said drily. Undoing his latest knot, he held out the rope. "Enough demonstration. Now you try."

I nodded, taking the rope. Slowly, I tried to mimic what he had done. "Where did a mage learn to tie knots like this?" I muttered while I worked.

One corner of his mouth quirked up in what was either a smile or a grimace. "Xanos used to be very good at setting rabbit snares," he said blandly.

I raised my eyebrows and held out my finished knot for inspection. The sorcerer glanced at it, nodded, and then gestured for me to redo it. It was a sensible request – practice was the only way to learn, after all - so I complied. "Used to be?" I asked curiously.

"It has been years since I have been forced to live that way." On further inspection, I decided that his expression was much more of a grimace than a smile. "And good riddance."

I paused in mid-knot, raising my eyebrows. "You do not like rabbit?"

His eyes were lidded, obscuring their expression. "I do not like starving," he answered shortly. He stood. "Enough. You seem to have it, and we cannot spare any more time." He raised his voice. "Brown! Come here."

The dragon plodded over. "What is it?"

"I will go down ahead of you. Once I am down, pull the rope up, give it to the princess, wait for her to secure herself with it, then lower her down." The sorcerer spoke clearly and simply, as if to a child. "Do you understand?"

The dragon bobbed its head. "Got it," it said brightly.

Xanos gave it a skeptical look. Then he sighed. "Fine. Try not to drop her," he muttered. Then he took the rope back from me, secured it to the column again, and began to lower himself over the edge. Muscles stood out in his arms and shoulders as they took up his weight. "See you at the bottom," he said. He gave me a sardonic look. "Try not to die between here and there, princess," he said drily. Then he vanished below the ground.

The dragon and I waited in uncomfortable silence until the sorcerer was down. I did not look at the beast, though once he drew in a breath as if to say something. Whatever he had in mind, however, seemed to die there. That was good. I did not have much to say to him.

The rope stopped moving and went slack. The dragon, peering over the edge, spoke at last. "He's down," it said, and began to gather the rope. When it was done, it turned and held out the looped length of rope over one long black talon. "Ready?"

I did not reply. Wordlessly, I took the rope, careful not to touch the beast, though I still felt the heat of it on my fingers. Then I looped the rope around my waist, tied the slipknot, and nodded curtly.

The dragon stared at me a moment. Then it sighed. "All right," it said glumly. "I see how it is." It wrapped the rope around its taloned hands. "Go on. For what it's worth, I meant what I said. I won't let you drop."

I did not trust myself to answer. I did not trust the dragon's word. I did, however, think I trusted the sorcerer's assessment, and so I allowed myself to be lowered, my hands gripping the rope and my feet braced against the wall to steady me.

The wall went past, bit by bit. It was lighter above and darker below. There were strange shapes in the stone. Some were tightly curled spirals. Some were long and thin and smooth, like worms. Once I saw a spidery shape, a puckered nodule with five thin, wavery arms reaching out from it like the spokes from a wheel.

Once I even saw what looked almost like the outline of a fish, flattened and dark, as if someone had taken the shadow of a fish and somehow pressed the shadow into the stone itself. Beneath a whisper-thin impression of flesh and scale, its fins were a delicate tracery of bone, its spine a curved, tapering line. I reached out with one hand as I passed. My fingertips brushed cold stone.

_"They called it the Narrow Sea," _I heard Brown's voice in my memory, but how long ago must that have been, for a fish to turn to stone? Unable to pry my eyes away, I stared at the creatures in the stone all the way down, watching as they grew fewer, then simpler, from fish and shells to dots and spirals, and finally, to nothing but blank stone.

My feet touched the ground. Hands reached out to steady me – Ishiko's, I realized. Xanos stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. He watched us carefully, but made no move to intervene.

A voice called out from above. "Look out below!" it shouted. I heard the rustle of wings and saw a shadow move.

Above, something struck the wall with a grating noise that I felt in my bones more than I heard. I looked up to see it clinging to the wall near the top of the pit, its wings half-outspread. As I watched, it shoved itself away from the wall and dropped down another several feet, its wings beating frantically to slow its fall. It hit the wall again, talons outstretched. They bit into the wall with that horrible grating noise, slowing it down even further. Then again, to the other side, and again, and again, the dragon descended, more falling than flying, until at last it thumped to the ground. Dust rose. "Well," the dragon said breathlessly. "That was better than the last landing, at least."

I shook my head and looked away, leaning against the wall. My legs were trembling, and I was out of breath again. With Ishiko's help, I sank down against the wall, cursing myself for my uselessness. If I had any value in this venture, it was as a sword arm – but if I was too weak to lift my sword, what good was I?

Ishiko knelt in front of me. "You all right?" she asked gruffly.

I gulped a breath and nodded. "Yes," I said.

She looked at me for a long moment. "You know there's no getting your family back from Thimm, don't you?" she asked suddenly.

I blinked. Then, slowly, anger filled me. I met her eyes. "I do not care," I said bluntly. Without my family – without my sister – I would have no place in the world and very little reason to live. "I must try."

Ishiko looked at me a moment longer. Then, inexplicably, she sighed. "Aye," she said. "That's what I thought you'd say." Briefly, she pressed two fingers to my shoulder, a spare gesture that nevertheless felt somehow affectionate. Then she stood and walked towards the center of the pit, reaching for something in one of her belt pouches.

I stared after her, confused beyond all measure by her strange behavior.

It was then that I saw the thing in her hand – a small sphere of glass, filled with some kind of swirling smoke.

Xanos and the dragon were near the stone arch, conferring about runes. Ishiko drew near them and stopped.

Dread struck me suddenly, cold and searing. My hand flashed to the crossbow, but as fast as I was, Ishiko was even faster.

Swift as a striking snake, the Kara-Turan woman covered her mouth and nose with a black cloth, raised the globe high, and dashed it hard against the floor. It shattered.

A coil of pale smoke hung suspended in the air above the shattered globe, just for a split second.

Then, far too suddenly to be natural, it flashed from wisp to cloud, turning the whole world white.

The smoke filled my lungs. It tasted strange, bitter and cold. I felt myself slump to one side, my muscles suddenly refusing to respond to any of my commands.

I could feel the scrape of stone against my back. I could feel the wood of the crossbow beneath my fingers. I could feel my hair, falling across my face and into my eyes.

But I could not move. I could not even speak.

Wreathed in white mist, Ishiko's thin, dark-clad figure turned. She took the little square of black cloth away from her face. Her eyes, when they met mine, seemed almost sad. "Sorry, girl," she said. She nodded at the crossbow, still clutched in my frozen hands. "You should have shot me when you had the chance."

A faint, harsh scraping noise came from the other side of the room. It was Brown. The dragon lay sprawled on the rocky ground, its wings spread flat and limbs sprawled nervelessly – but one of its toes was slowly curling, drawing the tip of its claw down the stone. It was staring at Ishiko accusingly. Its jaw opened a fraction, just enough to get a single word out. "Why?" it rasped.

She looked over her shoulder at the fallen wyrmling. "My master will want you," she said, almost sadly. "You and the sorcerer. Sorry. Needs magic for his potions. Like the sorcerer said…blood of the magical's the best way to get it." She turned back to me, her expression black. "I'd tell him no, but you don't say no to the Poisoner. His poisons don't always kill you. They just make you wish they would. And he's the only one with the antidote."

Furiously, I tried to will my muscles to move. They remained as still as dead things. But at least I knew the stink of that smoke, now – it was the stink of betrayal.

Ishiko was crossing the pit to me. "Wish it didn't have to be like this," she said regretfully, and knelt next to me, taking her crossbow from my unresisting hands. Again, she touched my shoulder. Had I been able to, I would have struck her traitor's hand away from me. "I'll do what I can to get my master to spare you," she reassured me. "Maybe he'll let me train you as my second." She holstered her crossbow and stood. "'Course, you might want to consider dying instead," she added grimly, turning away. "I would have, if I'd known what serving him meant."

No one else moved. Brown appeared to have given up on breaking his paralysis, and though I could not see Xanos, I could hear no sounds of movement from him, either.

Ishiko's footsteps echoed across the stone as she went over to the still-dangling rope. "You have enough rations for five days," she said over her shoulder as she reached for the rope. "Thimm will come for you then." She began to climb. Then she stopped. "Oh, I almost forgot," she added. She looked at Xanos. "Undissa sends his regards," she said, and smiled thinly. "Don't worry – he won't come after you. He knows better than to cross Thimm." She turned back to the rope and began to climb again. Her voice drifted back through the fading smoke. "I made sure of it."

Helpless, I watched her figure dwindle as she climbed. Then she vanished, seemingly swallowed by the sky as she pulled herself back to the world above.

The rope twitched. Then it slithered back up over the edge and vanished, too.

Overhead, the sky darkened, and I watched the stars appear one by one.

Then, as night fell in full, the door closed again, and we were left paralyzed in the dark.


	44. Chapter 44

_A/N: Pursuant to the image overhaul that half-orcs have been getting for 3.5 and 4th ed, Xanos has just gotten his own image overhaul. It was past time. Check out my profile to see him._

* * *

Thimm was a dead man walking. It was only a matter of time.

My fingertips twitched. My blood boiled, hazing my vision red. I wanted to scream, to tear, to bite, to crush. My rage needed an outlet, but I could not even move. Somehow this only made matters worse. Evidently all of my protections were no proof against this particular neurotoxin. The Poisoner knew his art well.

_I will kill him,_ I thought, fuming with a sick fury. Oh, Ishiko as well, though she would only be a footnote. She was a hand at arm's length. I wanted the head that ruled the hand.

Claws scrabbled at the wall of the pit. I could not see the wyrmling, not without turning my head, but from the sounds of it, he had quickly shaken off his paralysis and was now trying to climb to freedom. He was a fool, if so. He should have saved his energy until the hatch was open.

Had I been able to, I would have laughed at that thought. _I call the dragon a fool, _I thought bleakly. _Idiocy. I am the fool here. _The signs had been there. The empty glass in Undissa's den, the warm chair, the smell of opium – was she an addict? Was that why she served Thimm? – no matter, those signs had all given away Ishiko's presence even earlier than she had shown herself. The bastard of a lizard had even offered me a Kara-Turan vintage, a seemingly innocuous offer that now took on the taint of a knowing taunt.

_You ass. You utter and absolute ass._ I wanted to take my own head off almost as much as I wanted to remove Thimm's. How long had his tame bitch been following me without my notice? Had she been spying on Ghufran from the start? The D'Tarig was known in the regional drug trade. She would need to be warned. Whatever else might be said about her, she was a survivor. She deserved the chance to survive a little longer.

My hand suddenly quivered. My heart leaping, I tried to flex my fingers. They moved like an old man's, but after a few false starts, I found myself able to make a fist. Then I was able to move my arm. Then, as if the next heartbeat flooded the poison from my system all at once, the paralysis left me.

I rose jerkily. Fire rose to my fingertips. _Not fire_, I thought raggedly. Not in an enclosed space. The dragon would survive it, but the woman would not.

Summoning the last of my presence of mind, I turned and slammed my fist into the stone wall, snarling. Then again. And again. I felt the skin over my knuckles split. The pain should have calmed me, but somehow it only made me angrier.

Eventually, I stopped, panting. Blood snaked over my fingers. I did not look to see what I had just done to my hand. Whatever it was, I no doubt deserved it.

Brown's scrabbling had stopped. Now I heard his footsteps, far lighter and more tentative than Tymofarrar's heavy, ice-crunching tread. "Xanos," he said softly. His voice was worried. "Are you all right?"

I closed my eyes and breathed in the cool air, as if that would drown the fire in my belly. _No, I am not all right_, I answered silently. "I should have killed that bitch when I had the chance," I snarled - and it _was_ a snarl, far more guttural and animal-like than it had any right to be. I tried to think human thoughts.

"You had too much on your mind. You were trying to keep us all alive, and you did. You did it better than any of us could have. You couldn't have foreseen-"

My roar echoed off of the walls. "I bloody well could have!" Scowling, I snapped my hand to try to take away the sting. Hitting the wall had also been stupid, in hindsight. It had accomplished nothing except for giving me some flayed knuckles to bandage. "It was obvious," I said, my voice losing some of its bestial burr. "Her story was too thin. I knew she had an ulterior motive. She was only biding her time before revealing it. I thought I would be able to catch her beforehand." I had obviously learned nothing from Karsus about the foolishness of pride.

The wyrmling shrugged. Though I could clearly see each scale and claw, the darkness leeched all color from my vision and painted the little dragon in wraithlike shades of gray. "Oh, come now. Don't be so hard on yourself," he urged earnestly. "You did your best. Nobody's perfect."

I snorted. "The excuse of failures," I said quellingly.

I heard movement. It was followed by a deep, hacking cough, the kind that implied the cougher was trying to dislodge a gelatinous cube from their lungs. "Xanos," a female voice croaked.

I spared Nadiya a glance. She was sitting slumped against the wall. "What," I said, my voice flat.

The woman cleared her throat again. "She did this, not you," she said hoarsely. "Do not be a fool. It does not become you."

I opened my mouth to respond. Then I found that I had no immediate response for that, and was forced to close it again. The woman had a rare ability to sound reassuring while simultaneously making me feel as if I had just been slapped upside the head.

Shaking the feeling off, I turned away. I thought of light, and a light appeared in the air above my palm, temporarily blinding me until my eyes adjusted. Once I could see again, I pinned the mage light with another thought and busied myself with locating my bandages – the pouch of holding in my pocket was useful for carrying far more than I could otherwise, but it was useless for finding anything in a hurry – and bandaging my knuckles. No point in wasting a healing potion on such a minor injury. Besides, perhaps the pain would serve as a reminder not to make the same mistake twice.

While I wound the linen around my hands, I frowned at the doorway in one wall of the pit. It was not even very clearly a doorway, just a carved arch that bent around a blank stone wall. Still, one did not guard an empty pit this well. There must have been more to this place than met the eye, and my gut told me that this archway was the key to finding out what that was.

Brown spoke up hesitantly. "What do we do now?" he asked.

I grunted and shot Nadiya an assessing look. Her head had fallen back against the wall and her eyes were closed. If not for the sound of her breathing, I would have taken her for a corpse. "We wait," I said. The woman needed water, food, and sleep, not necessarily in that order, and she would be useless until she had them.

The wyrmling inched closer. His long, horse-ish face was worried. "How long? Do…do we just wait here until noon tomorrow, then?"

"No." I ran my fingertips over the nearest runes. This was actual Loross rune script, unlike the primitive pictograms above – this structure must have gone through several additions and revisions over time - but they were very worn. I would have killed for some charcoal and a few sheets of rubbing paper, but I had neither and the parchment I did have was too thick to pick up any clear impressions. "If we wait here that long, we might just wait ourselves into the Poisoner's open arms."

"But…Ishiko said we have five days."

I snorted. "And after what she has done, you still believe her?"

The wyrmling's wings drooped. "I suppose not," he said morosely. His woebegone expression would not have looked out of place on a recently-kicked puppy. "Why would she do such a thing?" he whined.

My fingers traced their way up the archway. There was what looked like a Sultros rune there – the Netherese rune for evil. That was either a very promising sign or a very bad one. "You heard what she said," I replied absently. "Her reasons were clear enough."

The little dragon winced. "I wish they weren't," he mumbled. He gazed at me pleadingly. "I'm scared, Xanos. I don't want to end up like the rest of my family. Maybe it's just been dumb luck that I've lived this long, but I'd still like the luck to last a little while longer, if it's all the same to the gods."

I had expected – or at least hoped for – many things from my life. Becoming a brass dragon hatchling's babysitter had not been one of them. Raising my voice at him was not even an option. If I did he would only look even more hangdog and pitiable. "If we can get this door open, you may get that chance," I said, as mildly as I could. At least we would have another wall between us and Thimm – if not another way out of this pit. Where there was a door, there was a way – and I did not intend stay here and die like a rat in a cage. Abruptly, I pointed at the rune which came just before the Sultros rune. "Do you recognize this rune?" I asked then. Perhaps a distraction would keep the little dragon from whining and render him slightly less useless.

With surprising obedience, the dragon lifted his head and inspected the rune. Though the shape of his snout did not lend itself to such expressions, the corners of his mouth still somehow managed to turn down in a reasonable approximation of a thoughtful frown. "Well," he said hesitantly. "I'm not sure what it's called, but I think it means…beast, I suppose you could say." He stretched his neck out to bring his nose closer to the rune. "It's hard to tell. The Netherese based their rune script on the Draconic alphabet – though I suppose you know that already - but then they changed all the meanings."

I grunted. "Good enough," I muttered. I scanned the stone. Comprehension clicked. "And that is a Felkor," I added suddenly, tapping another one of the worn symbols. "Cyric's Balls. I almost did not recognize it. The bastards carved it upside down."

Brown settled back, his head cocked in thought. "Doesn't that…do something?" he asked tentatively. "If the rune's upside down? There was a Netherese scholar in Tel Badir who let me read his scrolls, but, um, they weren't really all that clear on the particulars. But I seem to remember that positioning's important."

I grunted. "There are very few particulars still known about these things," I answered. "Most of the knowledge died when the Empire did." I dug through my memory of Drogan's lessons. They seemed so long ago, though it had not even been a year since I had left Hilltop._ Less than a year and more than a lifetime._ "It…negates the rune's meaning," I said slowly. _I think_. The rune for 'beast' was followed by a Sultros rune. Netherese adjectives followed their nouns, which meant that evil described the beast. Then came Felkor, inverted, with what looked to be a Saakor rune immediately after. Saakor meant stasis, Felkor meant movement. It was a strange combination. "What is the negation of movement?" I murmured out loud.

The wyrmling peered at me in confusion. "Is this a riddle?"

I stared at the wall. Then I bit back a sigh. "You can consider it one if it gets you to answer more quickly."

He hesitated. Then he shrugged. "I don't know," he said helplessly. He thought for a moment. "I guess if you did the opposite of moving, you'd be holding still, wouldn't you? Or being held."

I stared at the archway. "Brilliant," I breathed. "That is exactly it." Suddenly, I grinned. "Wonder of wonders! You are not nearly as stupid as you seem, wyrmling."

"Thank you. I think."

Excitement flooded me, leaving me almost giddy. "Confinement," I said, speaking rapidly. "The negation of movement is confinement. And if you put a confined thing in stasis…" I twisted to speak over my shoulder. "You may be right, princess. Something is – or at least was – imprisoned here."

She looked up with an obvious effort. Her eyes glittered behind a tangled fall of hair, huge and black and warily hopeful. "The phaerimm?"

I shrugged and turned back to the wall. There was a Grekhan rune, as well, and Perzia - stone modified by air. Perhaps this thing did open after all. "Damned if I know," I confessed.

Brown eyed me sideways. "How can you not know? You keep saying that you know everything," he protested indignantly.

I snorted. "It is hardly Xanos's fault if you are gullible enough to believe what he says."

Brown rolled his eyes. "I'll bear that in mind for the next time you say something that doesn't make any sense," he said drily.

Nadiya's voice spoke up in a rusty whisper. "You will not have to wait long for that."

I rolled my eyes. "Did you enjoy your nap, princess?" I asked brightly. "Yes? Good. Why don't you take another one?" I went back to studying the wall. Matroz – that meant light. Why light? Did this thing respond to light? Bloody strange behavior for a door at the bottom of a hole.

Brown spoke up curiously. "What was a phaerimm doing here in the first place?"

I shrugged. "Trapped by the sharn, if I had to guess," I said. "Perhaps some Netherese mages found it here and decided to bolster its prison, just in case." As I ran my hand across the space between two runes, I felt a disturbing sensation creep into my skin, though it was not so much a sensation as the antithesis of sensation, a sucking void that made me jerk my hand away as if scalded. "Nine Hells."

The wyrmling jerked upright, nearly quivering with sudden panic. "What is it?"

I restrained a shudder. "Anti-magic," I said grimly. It seemed to permeate the stone in seemingly random patches. "I cannot tell what is causing it. Be careful."

"I'll try." He craned his head on his long neck, studying the runes from a safe distance. "Oooh," he said suddenly. He reared up on his hind legs, half-standing to get a closer look at whatever had caught his interest. "There's a sparkly up here," he observed eagerly. His head tilted. "It's not very big, but it's rather pretty. Do you think I could keep it?"

I paused. Then I heaved another sigh. I seemed to be doing that quite often as of late. "Gods be good," I muttered despairingly. I raised my voice. "Yes, wyrmling," I said with exaggerated patience. "Once this is over, and assuming you can pry that stone out of there, you may have your bloody sparkly."

The dragon beamed. "Marvelous," he said, and dropped back down to all four feet. "Say, a thought just crossed my mind…"

"That must have been a very long and lonely journey for it."

Brown pouted. "Oh, now, that was uncalled for."

I ignored that. Fool that he seemed, the dragon was right about the stone. There was a gemstone set in the archway, right over the keystone. "Dragon," I said forbiddingly. "Explain. Now. Before I lose my patience."

He blinked. "But you don't have any," he argued earnestly. "Can you lose something you don't have?" Sudden comprehension made him brighten. "Ooh, I get it. It's a riddle, isn't it? Marvelous! I love riddles." He hunkered down in thought. "Let's see…."

I gritted my teeth. "Dragon!" I growled. My voice was trending towards orcish again.

The wyrmling huffed. "Fine, fine," he said airily. "We'll play later. Now we'll…" His scaly forehead furrowed. "Wait, what were we doing? Oh! Oh, right. Now I remember. Nadiya's sword." He nodded towards the Bedine. "The pommel stone. It's fire agate, too. Remember? Do you think that means anything?"

I stared at him for a moment. Then I shook my head and gave a short, grudging laugh. _Trust a dragon to notice a gemstone. _There were indeed symbols near the fire agate in the wall. They were not runes. They more looked like the suns and moons and stars on the circle above. A rune of light, the sun, and the moon… "Princess," I said.

She made the startled snorting noise of someone who had just been woken from sleep. Her head jerked up. "Y-yes?" she asked, confused.

"Hold your sword up so the hilt is highest," I instructed. She complied, but her arm quivered with the effort. "Never mind," I added. A steady hand was needed, and in any case if I let her hold that thing any longer she was going to drop it and accidentally disembowel herself. I crossed to her, holding out my hand. "Give it to me. Do not worry. I have no need for the thing and as little interest in holding it as you have in letting it go, believe me." Reluctantly, she handed it over, hilt-first. I flipped the sword upside down, so that I was holding it by the hilt's crosspiece. The light from my magelight reflected from the pommel stone onto the wall, a white splotch against gray rock. "Fascinating," I said then. "I think we have our solution."

Nadiya squinted at the light. "Which is?" she slurred. Blood loss seemed to be making her very slow on the uptake.

"Light," I answered briefly. Without moving the sword, I used a flicker of thought to nudge the magelight first one way and then the other, seeing how its reflection moved on the wall. The light fell on the fire agate set in the archway.

Nothing happened.

I frowned at the blank stone. "This is not what Xanos was expecting," I muttered.

Brown twisted his head around to study the runes. "Maybe…maybe it's the wrong kind of light?" he suggested hesitantly. "There are suns and moons up there. Maybe it needs sunlight. Or moonlight."

I blinked. "Nine Hells," I said. Light or no light, I suddenly felt quite dim. On the one hand, it was proving useful to have a creature of draconic intelligence on my side. On the other hand, Brown's surprising knack for coming up with good ideas was beginning to make me feel inadequate. "Ahem." I steadied the sword and focused again on the light. I thought of sunlight, and the witch light began to change, becoming yellower, hotter, harsher…

When the light reached a certain shade of yellow which was very like the sun, there came a hollow click in the wall.

Then, as if the light had dissolved the very stone, the stone within the archway simply…vanished, turning first semi-transparent, then to dancing motes of dust, then to nothing but empty air.

Beyond, a circular chamber stood in shadow. The walls were carved with deep archways, their recesses hidden by rotting draperies. Below them, the broken remains of a mosaic floor was strewn with bones. Near the archway, thick spiderwebs stirred, rippling for a moment as the opening of the door lifted a tiny current of air. A chitter and the sudden scurry of tiny, clawed feet suggested the presence of a very surprised rat. Aside from that, nothing moved.

Nadiya had managed to sit up from her slump. Now she stared at the newly revealed chamber, wide-eyed. "Sweet spirits," she whispered.

Without taking my eyes from the shadowy chamber, I lowered the sword and stepped back. Reversing my grip again, I handed it back to its owner. "It looks like there is more to your ancestor's sword than meets the eye, princess," I said mildly. Now, how had a Bedine tribe come to own the key to a phaerimm's tomb? This place predated the sword – unless, of course, the sword was even older than it seemed. I would have to convince her to let me study it more closely when I had leisure. My disinterest in pointy pieces of metal might have led me to overlook a potentially valuable artifact. I would endeavor not to overlook it again.

A loud snuffling came from one side of the pit. Brown had lifted his head. Now he inhaled deeply and repeatedly, his jaws parted as if to better draw in the air. For a moment, his tongue flicked out from between his fangs. It was long and purple and forked like a snake's. "I don't smell anything," he said nervously. He tilted his head. "Or see anything."

My eyes went to the floor of the shadowy chamber. I went very still. "I do," I said.

The wyrmling crouched back worriedly. "What?" he squeaked. "What is it?"

With a silent nudge, I sent the now-sunny witchlight ahead. Its light fell on a broken mosaic, rotting cloth, cracked stone, and there, lying curled in the center of the chamber like a discarded husk...

I stepped forward. The thing did not move. Bones rattled away from my foot and into the darkness. "Congratulations, princess," I said softly. "I think we have found your phaerimm."


	45. Chapter 45

Not much was left of the corpse. Rats or other subterranean scavengers must have stripped it to the bone, leaving only this sad, strange skeleton behind.

The fragile bones of its rib cage lay flat against the dusty floor. Its rib cage was funnel-shaped, eventually tapering off into a twisting, snakelike tail. The wider end of the rib cage was connected to a complicated, circular shoulder girdle which ended in four spindly arms. Two arms were stretched along the floor. They ended in long, thin hands with three clawed fingers and a thumb, though the thumb was missing on one. Of the other arms, only a single humerus was still attached to the skeleton. It jutted out at an oddly jaunty angle. The rest of the skeleton's arm and finger bones were scattered among the broken mosaics like so many dice – the chaos of death sprung from the intrinsic order of a once-living thing.

The thing had no identifiable neck, just a smaller ring of bone attached to its shoulder girdle. Teeth lined the inside of the ring, making that its mouth. It was vaguely reminiscent of a lamprey, only this creature had been far, far more intelligent than any fish.

The chamber, aside from the sounds of our own movement, was silent except for a quiet rustling from above – bats, perhaps, though the ceiling was too deep in shadow to make out any details after the mage light had obliterated my night vision.

Nadiya leaned heavily against the archway. Dried blood crusted her shirt and one side of her neck. Her eyes were wide with amazement. "Is it dead?" she asked hoarsely.

I looked at the bones of the dead phaerimm. "Quite," I said drily. I circled the thing, studying it curiously. "My, my, my," I murmured. "How the mighty have fallen."

"What killed it?"

I stopped and frowned down at the skeleton. "I do not know," I admitted. "But I do not think it is still here – or if it is, it means us no harm. If it did, we would have been dead by now. Anything which could kill a phaerimm could kill us easily."

Nadiya frowned at me. "That is not…reassuring," she said.

"What, the fact that we are not yet dead? I find it quite comforting, myself." There was something to her words, however. Something _was_ nagging at me. The hair on the back of my neck was standing on end, and I felt ill at ease. My instincts seemed to think that something here was…off. I had learned to trust my instincts. They had saved my life often enough, usually by pushing the rest of me into action while my brain was still trying to piece two and two together to make four.

Frowning, I scanned the room. The walls just above the arched recesses which encircled the room were positively covered with runes of imprisonment. Whoever had carved them had wanted to be very sure that the hall's occupant would not escape. They should have taken more care of the structure. A crack ran up one wall, narrow near the floor but quickly widening into a gap large enough for even Xanos to squeeze through, though it would take some climbing to reach it. The sensation of cooler air and the musty smell of fungus wafted from there, implying the presence of a tunnel.

Brown crept anxiously into the chamber, sticking close to the wall. His feet crunched on tiny bones – perhaps those of a rat or a bat. He kept a wary eye on the draperies that hung from the walls, as if expecting some hideous undead monstrosity to leap from behind the rotting cloth – satin, from the looks of it, once a rich purple but now gray with dust and rot. "I don't like this place," he whined. "Are you sure we should be here?"

"Better here than above," Nadiya answered tiredly. With an effort, she pushed herself away from the wall and took two staggering steps into the chamber.

With far less fuss than such an event deserved, the stone wall silently re-formed behind her.

Brown stared at the suddenly walled-off exit in horror. "By the horns of Ileuthra!" he squeaked. One of his wingtips snagged on a fold of ancient satin. He let out a squeak and jerked his wing away. The fabric tore, revealing the niche behind it. "Can we get it open again? _Please_ tell me we can get it open again."

I stared past him, at what had been behind the draperies. "Yes," I said distantly. "Most likely."

The wyrmling blew out a relieved breath. "Oh, good," he gasped. "I-" He stopped, looked at my face, and blinked. "Er. What's wrong? You just went really quiet."

Wordlessly, I pointed.

The dragon turned. He recoiled. "Bahamut's Breath!" he wailed. Claws scrabbled as he tried to back away from the thing. "What is that?"

I stared at the sad thing on the wall. Leathery brown skin was stretched taut over the bones of a vacant-eyed skull. A few strands of hair still clung to the skull. Below, a silvery chain was snugged under the dead man's chin, its ends anchored to the wall on either side of his neck. Four more chains pinioned his withered wrists and ankles to the wall, so that he hung spread-eagled like some gruesome tapestry.

Now I knew exactly what had been bothering me. It had been the way the drapes fell. No cloth billowed like that unless something was hiding beneath it. "_That_ is a corpse," I answered the dragon's question. I looked at the other archways. They all looked the same, now that I knew what I was looking for. I spun on my heel and strode to the nearest. When I jerked aside its curtain, more bones rattled in their chains. "No – allow me to correct that. Many corpses." One by one, I did the same for each arched compartment. There was an occupant in each recess - and each one, I saw as I twitched each rotting drapery aside, was robed in black. Most had black-and-white head clothes wound around their heads, trailing frayed ends down to their desiccated shoulders.

Brown was huddled on the floor as if trying to make himself as small as possible. "Xanos, I think those are Bedine," he said plaintively. "Xanos, why are there dead Bedine hanging from the walls?"

I threw my hands in the air. "I do not know," I said exasperatedly. "Because the phaerimm decided to take a few decorating tips from the Zhentarim and thought a few corpses would give the place that homey, _died-in_ look?"

The wyrmling's eyes darted from side to side in confusion. "Er. Sorry," he said. "Was that you being sarcastic?"

"Nooo. Not at all!"

Nadiya had been staring at the newly re-formed door, wide-eyed. Now she transferred her gaze to the corpses, and whatever she saw there, it made all of the remaining blood drain from her face. She swayed. "Xanos," she said hoarsely.

I had taken half a step forward to catch her before I realized what I was doing and stopped myself. It was the bloody geas, almost certainly, prompting me to leap to her side if she so much as stubbed her toe. Well, Xanos Messarmos would do no such thing. I folded my arms across my chest, scowling. "Yes?" I asked testily.

She spoke stiffly, as if her lips had suddenly gone numb. "I know that pattern," she said. "These dead men...they are wearing my tribe's keffiyeh."

I looked. I saw no difference between the headwear on these corpses and any other Bedine headwear I had seen, but presumably the one living Bedine who was present did. I unfolded my arms. "I see," I said quietly. I heard that rustling again, as if a family of bats was nesting up near the ceiling. I tilted my head back, trying to force my vision to penetrate the dark. My eyes narrowed. "Interesting."

Brown had gone from huddled to flattening himself belly-down against the floor with his forepaws over his eyes. I had the impression that if the floor had been made of sand, he would already have had his head buried beneath it. "Oh, dear," he moaned. "Oh, dear, dear, dear. I think we should leave. I really, really think we should leave."

I glanced at him briefly. "Why?" I asked. I looked up again. Dark shapes swayed overhead. "None of these corpses are of dragons."

The little dragon lifted one claw just enough to peek out from beneath it. "Maybe not," he conceded reluctantly. His one visible eye peered around him worriedly. "But there are so _many_ of them."

Nadiya had sunken to the floor, her arms wrapped around her middle as if to ward off a chill. "This does not make sense," she said weakly. "The phaerimm…was an ally."

I called the mage light to me and sent it floating up towards the ceiling. "An ally, you say?" I asked distantly. As the light rose, it began to illuminate a sea of dusty, tattered black cloth. "For how many generations was it your tribe's ally?"

Nadiya shook her head slowly. "Hundreds."

The light spun upwards, twinkling. Things took shape out of the shadows. I had been wrong about the bats. Those things up there were far too big to be bats.

I stared at them, filled with a sick, horrified fascination. "And how many corpses would you say there are here?" I breathed.

Bare, mummified feet swayed gently overhead. Falls of black cloth were so thickly clustered that it was impossible to see the ceiling beyond. Chains clinked quietly.

Brown had lifted his head. He was staring upwards, his eyes suddenly brimming with painful sympathy. "Hundreds," he said softly. He pulled his eyes away and swung his head down. His eyes went to the girl. His expression saddened further. "Nadiya…I'm so sorry."

The little Bedine did not answer. She seemed frozen in place, her eyes huge and dark and very, very troubled. "Sweet spirits," she whispered harshly. "Sweet spirits."

I brought the light down. I thought we had seen enough. "If the spirits were involved in this," I said grimly. "Then there is nothing sweet about them."

Brown peeked upwards again. He swallowed. "What do we do?" he asked. "Surely we can't just leave them there-"

"What can we do?" I interrupted. I gestured towards the ceiling. "We cannot get them down, and if I try to burn them, we will have flaming chunks of Bedine raining down on our heads."

Brown winced. "Xanos, that's disgusting."

Nadiya spoke up. "It is…the truth," she said roughly. She coughed and wiped her eyes. "And we…cannot afford…to leave…a trail." Her words were punctuated by frequent pauses to catch her breath. "A pile…of burned corpses…will do that."

I snorted. "You, little one, need rest," I said firmly. "There are enough Bedine corpses in this room. We do not need to add one more."

The woman looked up with a truly bizarre, twisted grimace on her face. I could not tell whether it was a scowl or the beginnings of a laugh. Possibly it was a bit of both. "You…are not…my mother," she wheezed.

"Perhaps not, but you were the one who decided to make Xanos responsible for your welfare," I retorted. I held my hands out, placing myself on display. "Congratulations. This is what you have won." A brief search in my pouch of holding turned up a paper-wrapped portion of travel rations. I threw it to her. It hit the floor near her knee with a papery crackle and a dry, dusty snap. "Now, eat," I instructed brusquely. I nodded at the water skin at her belt. "And drink. Then sleep."

She fingered the packet for a moment. Then she swallowed hard and shook her head miserably. "I will only…throw it up," she murmured.

"Not on me, please," I said drily. "You have already tried that once today." She flushed in embarrassment at the reminder, though she need not have done so on my behalf. There may have been a time when Mother was not sick, but if so, it had been when I was very young, because I could not recall a time when she was entirely well. As time wore on and her fits and fevers grew in frequency and severity it had fallen more and more on me to be her caretaker. I had become used to having ailing women spew various extremely personal and unpleasant substances up on me. I did not enjoy it. But I _was_ depressingly used to it. "Eat slowly and eat what you can, then, but eat," I said firmly. "Your body needs food to replace the blood you have lost." I caught her eye and grinned mockingly. "Do not be a fool, Nadiya," I echoed her earlier words to me. "It does not become you."

The woman held her scowl – on the balance, I decided that it was only a scowl – a little longer. Then, sullenly, she complied, reaching for the rations and wearily peeling the paper away from the terrible little square of dried fruit paste, ground nuts, gritty meal, stale oats, and gods knew what else. Honestly, if she ate the whole thing and then puked it all over the phaerimm's corpse just on general principle, I would not object. Though I _would_ stand well out of splatter range.

Brown was sitting by, his jaws slightly parted in an aghast expression. "You expect her to sleep here?" he asked incredulously.

Satisfied that Nadiya was behaving sensibly and at least trying to eat, I moved away. "Where else?" I asked rhetorically. I waved one hand at the wall. "There is a wall between us and the entrance to this place, and hopefully it will be there until we choose to open it. Regardless of whether we do that or try to find an alternative route back to the surface through there-" I nodded at the crack in the wall. "Regardless, _she_ is in no shape to go any further."

Brown ducked his head reluctantly. "All right," he sighed. He pointed his snout at me. "Then maybe you should rest, too. I don't need to sleep right now. I can watch you both."

I recalled that dragons could stay awake for days if not tendays – though they could also sleep for months, even years. I was inclined to trust his offer, now that his secrets seemed to be out and he appeared no more or less than he was, but suspicion was often its own reward. "We shall see," I said neutrally. Then I changed the subject. "What of food?" I asked. Dragons, like many large predators, ate sporadically, gorging themselves on a single hunt and then digesting their prey slowly over several days. "When did you last eat?"

The wyrmling blinked. Then he looked down and began counting off days on his talons. "Um. I think it's been…two, three…right. I think I'll need something in four or five days, if I stay like this." He shrugged. "Not right away," he added. "Unless I'm…you know." He grimaced furtively. "_Changed_. Then I seem to eat like a human. Don't ask me why. It's not like I really _am_ one."

"Form is function, and the body you wear has its own needs, I expect," I said. I eyed him speculatively. Sometimes he acted and spoke like the callow and often foolish human boy he had pretended to be, and sometimes he showed flashes of intelligence and arrogance which hinted at a far different nature. How much of his erratic behavior, I wondered, was due to his age, and how much was due to spending so much of his young life _changed_, as he put it? So little was known of dragons this young. Their parents typically kept them well-hidden. "Perhaps the change in form has changed you in more lasting ways than you know."

The dragon's coal-orange eyes were troubled. "Maybe it has," he conceded sadly. He twisted his head around on his long neck and stretched out one wing, tilting it this way and that as he subjected it to a long examination. At last, he heaved a sigh and lowered his wing. His face, when he turned it back to me, had a woebegone, defeated look. "I know I don't _feel_ like much of a dragon."

I watched him, a dozen or so sarcastic remarks rising to my lips. Something stayed them. I remembered saying something similar to Drogan, once, when I first found him and was full of doubts. I wondered how the old dwarf would react if I said half of the things I had a mind to say. _Probably give me that disappointed look of his._ No one had wielded the power of fatherly disappointment quite like Drogan. "You are young," I said shortly. _You are young, lad, _the echo of a voice whispered. _It'll come in time._ On impulse, I added,"Xanos did not feel like much of a sorcerer at your age, either." For that matter, I had not felt like much of anything, except perhaps for a danger to myself and everyone around me.

Brown blinked. "Oh," he said, evidently surprised. "I…well, thank you, Xanos. I hope you're right. I wouldn't like to feel this confused forever."

_You will_, I thought grimly. My own life thus far had consisted of long stretches of doubt, fear, and confusion interrupted by one brief, exhilarating flirtation with certainty. Then certainty, that inconstant bitch, had left me stranded in the middle of a desert with my hopes dashed, my pants down, and a target painted on my arse. "Yes, well," I said at last. "If you are planning to have any epiphanies, kindly postpone them until we have made it out of the present situation alive and unenslaved."

Brown nodded hurriedly. "Oh, yes, yes, of course, I beg your pardon," he babbled. "I wasn't-" In the midst of his bobbing, his eyes fell on something. He stopped. His wings half-unfurled in alarm. "Xanos," he said urgently. His voice was shrill with worry. "Look. Is she-"

I looked. Nadiya had slumped over onto her side. A still-open water skin lay near her limp hand, leaking water onto the floor. Her hair had fallen across her face. One lank strand fell across her faintly purplish lips. It was not immediately clear whether or not she was still breathing.

I froze, my thoughts suddenly churning. If she was dead-

_I will be free, _I thought. But the thought was not as pleasant as I had expected it to be. I would be free, yes, but with her enemies now considering themselves my enemies and a fresh corpse to dispose of on top of it all. I pictured Nadiya as a corpse, stiff and blank-eyed and waxy and skin empurpling with pooled blood, and it was…not a pleasant image.

Before I was entirely aware of what I was doing, I was crouched in front of her with two fingers on the soft flesh of her throat, the barbs of that damned geas digging painfully into my head, and a knot forming in my stomach. Neither geas nor knot let go until I felt a faint pulse under my fingers and saw the hair that fell over her face flutter slightly as she exhaled. I watched her breathe for a moment before it occurred to me that I had stopped doing the same. I blew out the breath I had been holding. "Still alive," I said. Irritably, I retrieved the fallen skin and stoppered it with enough force to make the neck bulge momentarily. "Damned fool." I was not entirely certain to whom I was referring.

Brown exhaled even more noisily than I had. "Thank the gods," he said fervently.

I snorted derisively. "Why?" I asked. "The gods had nothing to do with this. Field medicine and alchemy did." On second thought, I unstopped the skin again and took a long drink of water. Part of me wished it was brandy.

The wyrmling shrugged. I watched as he lumbered over to her side and lowered himself down next to her. The way he settled was queerly sphinxlike, down to the way he daintily crossed one forepaw over the other in front of his chest. "You are aware that if she wakes with you hovering over her like that, her first response will be to stab you," I added pointedly.

He shrugged. "I know," he said calmly. He turned to look at his wing. Then, carefully, watching his own wing as if unsure of what it might do if he took his eyes off of it, he unfolded it and extended it gently over the girl. Its pinion came to rest on the floor somewhat in front of her, so that his wing effectively made a tent over her. "I'll move before then," he assured me. He shifted slightly, his wing scraping the stone. "I just don't want her to get cold."

I raised my eyebrows. "Such touching concern," I said skeptically. I sank down against the wall, suddenly weary. It had been a long and trying few days. "I might almost believe that you care for the girl."

Brown sighed. "Believe what you like," he said. He looked down at the woman lying curled beneath his wing. "I do like Nadiya…even if she doesn't like me anymore," he added sadly. "She's very brave. And loyal. She'll go to the ends of the earth for her family. And her friends. Not many people will do that."

I looked at the sleeping woman. "No," I agreed. I envied her. At least she had a family and friends to go to the ends of the earth _for_. I had lost mine. Well – not lost. I knew exactly where Drogan and my mother were. I did not know where Rebecca was, but she had decided that she would have nothing to do with me, so I would have nothing to do with her. "Not many will."

Brown nodded sorrowfully. "It's not a nice world, is it?" he asked.

My laugh was brief and bitter. "It is a vile world, boy." The only thing worse than living in it was dying in it. "And it is a world where the loyal and the brave are usually the first to die."

The wyrmling lifted his head. Worried defiance sparked in his eyes. "Well, we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen this time," he said firmly. Then his certainty faded and his voice faltered. "Er…won't we?"

I grimaced and let my head fall back against the wall. I was likely getting cobwebs and dust in my hair, but at that moment I was too tired to care. "I suppose we must," I said. I had little choice in the matter. And it was true – the woman was too loyal to live.

_Let us hope that she is also too stubborn to die._


	46. Chapter 46

_A/N: This was originally one very long chapter which I split into smaller chunks in order to avoid hitting my readers with lots'n'lotsa words all at once. The good news is that we get to spend a few chapters with Nadiya. The bad news is that we get to spend a few chapters with Nadiya. Which side you're on depends on how much you like spending time with Nadiya. :D_

* * *

I knew stone, and dust, and the rattle of chains. Dark surrounded me, studded with the light of distant fires. I heard singing, and knew that men were burning on their pyres.

I tried to move towards them, to join them, and suddenly I was mired up to my knees in heavy, wet sand. It smelled like blood and smoke. While I stood trapped, faces passed, pale in the dark. Each face was a ruin. Each belonged to a member of my family. Cringing, I jerked this way and that, trying not to see them, but every time I turned away I saw another. My mother. Ali. Fayid. Malik. Zebah.

Gasping, my face hot from tears, I finally managed to break free. I lurched away from the faces and saw a man hanging from the ceiling on a hook. I knew him as soon as the slow sway of chains brought his face into light. It was ravaged, bloody, half-gone, but I still knew his face. _Hammad._ I knew it better than the face of the man who had sired me. That face was only a child's distant memory. That thing on the hook was my father, and he was dead, trussed up like a slaughtered goat. The sight paralyzed me.

Another part of me looked over the scene, as if hovering over it, separate from the rest. That Nadiya frowned. Something was not right. Hammad had gone to the pyre. He had left no corpse, and if he had, Kel-Garas would have used it in his armies. The lich would never have left a potential weapon dangling uselessly from a hook.

I tried to leave that place, hoping to find answers elsewhere, but before I could I felt the weight of something heavy and cold settle on me. _Chains._ They wrapped me tight, trapping my arms to my sides. I fought, but I felt myself being pulled towards cold stone, some terrible constriction choking the breath from my throat. I thrashed against my restraints, desperate. A Bedine did not die like this. A Bedine died fighting, weapon in hand.

I fought, my heart pounding, and finally manage to fling the weight away from my arms, freeing them. I surged upright, panting and flailing…

…then stopped in confusion.

My heart was still beating hard, but the dark had gone. In its place were twinkling lights in several different colors, and tall stone walls that stood half in shadow and half in light, and a dusty floor made of little squares of stone that slipped out from under my hands when I put my weight on them.

Slowly, my pulse stopped its racing. My wits cleared. Recent events flooded back. The bolt. The fever. The pit. Ishiko. Then…dead men in chains. I shuddered, my fists clenching. It took me a moment to realize that they were clenching in something other than air, and that it did not feel familiar.

I looked down. Something heavy _had_ been covering me. It was a sleeveless, high-collared mantle of stiff, heavy red silk damask with elaborate embroidery and bejeweled buttons. It smelled like smoke and blood, and was made to fit someone much larger than I. I smoothed the silk with my fingers, confused. The last time I had seen this garb, it had been on Xanos. I did not understand what it was now doing on me.

After another long, muddled moment, I pushed the robe off of me and struggled to sit up fully. The lights stung my eyes, and my back ached from hip to shoulder.

Claws screeched. I heard a gasp. "You're awake!" Brown exclaimed. He and the sorcerer were near the wall with the archway, mage lights hovering at even intervals above the symbols carved into the stone. Parchment littered the floor around them. "How do you feel?" the dragon fussed. He came forward a little ways, then stopped well short of me. "Are you all right?" he went on anxiously. He stretched his head out, as if trying to examine me as closely as he could without actually coming any nearer. "How's your head? Can you stand? Do you need help? Xanos, I think she might need water. Do you have water?"

I reached for my sword, just to find that I was half-laying on my scabbard. No wonder my hip ached. I pointed a warning finger in the dragon's face, instead. "Away from me," I growled, interrupting his flow of chatter. I shifted my gaze to Xanos. Without his robe, he looked…different. His shirt and breeches were fine quality linen, but plain and undyed and as different from his robe as they could be while still being clothing. His shirt had laces to close it, but the laces were undone, revealing a pile of necklaces tangled around the sorcerer's powerfully muscled neck. There were strings of beads and fine golden chains and silver ropes and other things besides, all twisted around one another. Amulets dangled onto his chest, copper and turquoise and lapis lazuli all bright against his ashy skin. I was surprised to see that the skin on his chest was the same greenish-gray as the rest of him, though finely dusted with very black hair. I did not know why I was surprised. Perhaps it was because I was used to seeing him with his robe covering him like an outlander suit of armor. This was like looking at another person entirely. I averted my eyes, feeling as if I had just glimpsed something I should not have seen. "H-how long did I sleep?" I said. My tongue felt as graceless and heavy as Brown's feet.

Xanos answered first. "The night, at the very least. Possibly half the day as well. It is difficult to know without seeing the sun."

Brown spoke up. "You slept for a long time," he agreed. "We were worried." He shot Xanos a glance. "Well, _I_ was worried," he corrected primly. "Xanos said not to worry. He said you just needed rest and you'd wake up when you were ready. Or you wouldn't wake up ever, but there wasn't much we could do either way. He wasn't very diplomatic about it. You know how he is."

"Yes, I know," I said absently. I realized that I was still staring at the sorcerer's amulets. I averted my eyes again. They fell on red silk. He had said nothing about his robe. I wondered if I should say something, if only to ask him if he wanted it back, but if he had said nothing perhaps it was best if I did the same. "Has…has there been any sign of Thimm?" I asked haltingly. "Or…her?" I could not say her name. Ishiko's betrayal stung far worse than the light had. I did not have much experience with friends, and I did not know what little distinctions made a person who was not a friend into a friend, but I thought that perhaps she might have been one. I had been wrong. The realization left me feeling hollow and bitter.

Xanos was the first to reply. "No," he said, voice and face taut and expressionless. I glanced down at his bandaged knuckles. His anger had ebbed, but from the way his eyes burned when I mentioned Thimm's name, it was still there, seething beneath the surface. I sympathized – I had hacked a tree to pieces with my sword after Hammad died. Sometimes a person just had to hit something. "Though we should move from here as soon as you are able," the sorcerer added, breaking into my musing. He gave me an assessing look. "How do you feel?" he asked.

I hesitated. The pain in my head was no longer the hot, throbbing, vise-like agony it had been before. I did not feel so breathless either, nor so nauseous. I did feel as wobbly as an undercooked egg. But I thought I could attempt standing. "Better," I said at last.

He nodded. "Can you stand?"

I pushed my strange blanket aside. "I…think so, yes." I got my feet under me and stood, slowly. My muscles were stiff from lying on a cold stone floor. A brief dizzy spell hit me on standing. I waited until it had passed before speaking again. "Yes. I can."

Xanos raised his eyebrows skeptically, but, strangely, did not argue. "Good," he said shortly. He gestured. "Try walking. If you can do so without collapsing, we can consider what to do next."

I nodded, but Xanos had already turned back to the glyphs. The dragon was watching me with what looked like concern. His look made my spine prickle. "Why are you watching me?" I asked irritably. I took one uncertain step, then another, more certain one.

The dragon blinked. "Er. To make sure you don't faint again?" he said, his voice bewildered. "Don't you remember? You did that a few times yesterday. You do look stronger, though." He looked over his shoulder at Xanos. "She does look stronger, doesn't she?"

Xanos spared me a brief look. "She has not fallen over yet," he remarked acerbically. "That is something, I suppose."

I wished the two of them would stop mentioning that. Falling over in a faint was bad enough without others constantly reminding me of the event. Grimacing, I began to walk – back and forth, back and forth across the phaerimm's chamber. While I paced, I took the opportunity to move my shirt collar aside and peek down at my shoulder. There was a puckered pink scar there but, to my uneasy amazement, the wound appeared almost healed. I did not know how the sorcerer's potions had done that. Then, abruptly, I decided that I did not want to know. It was enough to know that I would not have to worry about fighting with an open wound in my shoulder.

I paced. My eyes kept returning to the corpses on the walls. Over and over, one thought plagued me. _Did Ali know about this?_ I could not imagine that he could have known and said nothing. _Perhaps he did not see the bodies. _It was a hopeful thought, but one with little conviction. Ali would not have come here, found the phaerimm dead, and then left without investigating further. He had to have known. But if he had, why had he kept it a secret?

_Unless he already knew_, I thought. Brown's question of the day before kept returning to me, ringing in my ears. _What did the phaerimm want in exchange?_ I had always been told that al-Rashid had received his power from the phaerimm as a gift, but if I had learned anything of the Anauroch outside my oasis, it was that favors were not given freely and that every boon had its price. What, I wondered, had been the phaerimm's price?

A looked up at one of the corpses on the wall. A heavy shudder ran through me. I stopped abruptly and turned to face the others. "I feel well enough to walk," I announced. And I needed to leave here. Immediately.

The others had cleaned up the parchment and were in the midst of a murmured argument. When I spoke, they both broke off and turned to look at me. "Are you sure?" Brown asked dubiously.

I gritted my teeth. "Yes." I turned my shoulder to the dragon and looked at Xanos. "What do you think is our best course of action?" I asked him briskly.

Brown perked up. I had not addressed my question to him, but he answered anyway. "Oh, it's the most marvelous thing," the beast burbled. "Xanos and I have been exploring." He nodded at the crack in the wall. "Did you know there's a tunnel up there? We both climbed up and looked. Xanos thinks it leads to the surface."

I looked at the sorcerer. He had retrieved his robe and pulled it back on while I paced. I felt a pang of disappointment. He had seemed more approachable without it. Less guarded. "Does he?" I asked mildly.

Xanos looked back. His fingers deftly slipped the last few buttons of his collar through their holes. "Yes." His voice was dry. "He does."

The dragon broke in again. "Xanos dropped a pebble on the floor of the tunnel," he told me happily. "It rolled back this way. That means the tunnel slants up. Well, actually it slants down, too. But it slants down coming this way and up going the opposite way. We know because the pebble rolled back this way. See how that works? I thought it was very clever. For a half-orc, anyway. Mother always said they weren't clever, but I think she mustn't've met Xanos."

The half-orc's expression went flat. "Watch yourself, wyrmling," he rumbled warningly.

Brown blinked. "What? It was a compliment. I _said_ you were cleverer than a normal half-orc, didn't I?"

Xanos's rumbles were growing, the way the earth's did just before a rockslide. I decided that this was a good time to interrupt. "Did you explore the tunnel to see where it went?" I asked.

Xanos opened his mouth to reply, but Brown's tongue was even quicker. "Xanos went in a little ways," he reported. "I stayed here." His eyes darted. "After all, somebody had to watch you, right? We couldn't leave you alone, could we?"

Judging by how hastily the dragon had hidden at the first sign of danger above, I was willing to guess that he had been less motivated by concern and more motivated by cowardice. I ignored him and turned back to Xanos. "And you think this is a valid way out?" I persisted.

He pulled his glare away from the dragon. Some of the irritation left his eyes when they met mine. "The tunnel slopes upwards, widens as it goes, and there is enough air movement to indicate that it is not a dead end. There is a reasonable chance that it leads back to the surface." He jerked his thumb at the archway behind him. "And I do not like the idea of going back the way we came."

Thimm would be waiting back the way we had come, I knew. If not today, then soon. I gnawed on my lower lip, thinking. "If we go through the tunnel, will we be able to lose him?"

The sorcerer shrugged. "If not, we will at least be able to confuse and delay him."

I considered that. Then I nodded sharply. "Good enough. We climb." I turned to the crack in the wall without waiting for the others to follow. I was the reason they were here. I would be first into danger. With any luck, something might kill me and take this whole miserable tangle out of my hands.


	47. Chapter 47

_A/N: More Nadiya. I think the blood loss is making her feel punchy. That or she's finally relaxed enough in present company for her sense of humor to come out._

* * *

Brown shuffled after me as I began the climb. "Are we sure about this?" he asked worriedly.

I shrugged. "In life, only death is certain," I said. I searched for handholds. The stone was uneven and crumbling. Climbing it would be tricky.

The dragon harrumphed. "Are all Bedine this depressing?"

"Possibly," Xanos answered. He gestured at the ceiling. "Perhaps that is what happened here. They all hanged themselves in despair."

I frowned over my shoulder. "I will hang _you _if you do not move more quickly," I warned.

The sorcerer's eyes glinted with amusement. "Sway me once more with your sweet words, princess," he purred. "Tell me, did you have to strike a bargain with a baatezu to get that silver tongue of yours?"

I ground my teeth, my face reddening in spite of myself. "Shut up and climb, sorcerer." Cold, rough rock dug into my hands and feet as I climbed. Belatedly, I realized the awkwardness of my position. I blushed harder. "And do not look up," I added. Spirits only knew what they might see of me if they did.

Words floated up from below, buoyed on an annoyed sigh. "_Yes_, princess."

"Don't worry, Nadiya," Brown's voice chirped. "I can't see anything. Not with Xanos in the way."

Somehow, I did not find the dragon's reassurance very reassuring at all.

The climb began easily, but grew harder and harder as the crack widened and I could no longer use its sides to climb, but had to climb the rock wall behind it, instead. By the time my hands grasped the edge of the tunnel floor, my arms were shaking and my head was spinning. I heaved myself up and crawled until I felt on solid ground. Then I fell over backwards and sat, sucking in air which suddenly seemed far too thin.

Xanos followed. He pushed past me in a snap of robes. "Wait here," he said curtly, and vanished behind the next bend. He did not ask if I was well, though I supposed it was a stupid question. I obviously was not.

Claws appeared next. They rose over the edge of the tunnel floor, curled, and bit into the stone. Brown's head popped into view a moment later. "Goodness," he said. His bright orange eyes scanned the tunnel with dismay. "This seems awfully…dirty. And small."

How could such a large creature be so timid? I lifted my head. "Will you fit?" I asked.

The rest of him rose, blocking out what light there was. "I...think so," he said. Claws scrabbled. He made it up the last little slope and turned, his tail swishing and his wings slapping against the walls. "Goodness," he said again, his voice nervous. "It's a long way down, isn't it?"

I pushed his wing out of the way with one hand and tried to keep his tail from my shins with one foot. Both were surprisingly heavy. "Can't you fly?" I growled.

His head reared back. "Well…yes," he said, taken aback. "But how is that relevant?"

Logic was very evidently not this beast's strong point. "If you can fly, you have surely been higher up than this."

After a moment, his head bobbed. He turned. The tip of his tail whipped my shin on its way to hit the wall. I winced. "Well…yes," he conceded defensively. "But I was flying at the time. It's different."

_Spirits save me. _Could dragons be stupid? All of the tales I had heard had said otherwise, but I had learned not to trust in tales. "Hold still and you will not fall," I sighed. Besides, if he held still perhaps he would stop hitting me with his tail.

Xanos returned, looming suddenly out of the shadows. "Clear ahead," he said. "Follow me."

I sat upright. "I should go first," I protested. I tried to rise. "This is my idea-"

He interrupted me. "Can you see in the dark?"

The question stopped me in mid-rise. "Bugger," I said at last, dismayed.

His grin was a knife's slash of white in the dark. "Excellent! My work here is done," he said, chuckling. "I have finally driven her to profanity."

I scowled up at him. "Shut up and walk," I said. Using the wall, I levered myself to my feet, ignoring his chortles. "Stop wasting time, sorcerer."

He sketched a mocking bow and turned, obeying. I felt a moment's guilt. I did not want him to obey. Or rather, I did, but I wanted him to obey because I had _asked_, not because I had commanded, whereas the geas constrained him to the latter.

The tunnel widened rapidly until it was large enough for even Brown to pass, though there were crooked spaces where the dragon was forced to fold his wings and squeeze past the rock. I struggled to keep Xanos in sight so that I could follow him. He made no light, and the tunnel grew very dark very quickly. The only way I could see was by the strange mushrooms which grew on the walls and floor of the cavern. They almost glowed, emitting a pale and sickly light. When my foot touched one, it broke apart with a powdery crunch. The light of the mushrooms was not enough to see by, not properly, but it was enough to see the dark hulking shapes of my companions. Once I heard a chittering and thought I saw something scurry up the wall and into the shadows near the ceiling.

The fungus on the walls grew more thickly as we went. Soon, our feet raised a veil of dust from the crushed mushrooms. Brown began to snuffle wetly. "Gah," he said. His voice was strangled, and when he exhaled, I caught a strange scent, like overheated metal. "It's really du….du…duuhh…"

I smelled smoke. Some instinct – some memory of the tales I had heard of dragons and fire - made me plant both hands against Xanos' back and give him a hard shove. He toppled over with a yell just before the dragon sneezed. I followed suit, only more quietly.

I thought I would remember the line of fire that shot from Brown's jaws for a very long time. It was only a narrow streak of light, but painfully bright and hot all out of proportion to its width. It temporarily lit up the tunnel with a lurid orange light, leaving a fading afterimage seared across my vision.

Dark fell again. The air smelled like charred fungus. When I lifted my head, I saw that a very narrow, very precise path of darkness now cut through the glowing mushrooms. It appeared to be smoking.

Nearby, the sorcerer leapt to his feet. "What in the Hells was that?" he shouted.

I sat up much more slowly, groaning. After falling down several times in two days and sleeping on a hard stone floor, I felt like a walking bruise. "The dragon sneezed," I explained lamely. The situation sounded even more bizarre in words than it had seemed in action.

The sorcerer growled. "Why-"

Brown was a huddled shape in the dark. "It's dusty," he mumbled weakly. His voice was muffled, as if he had his paws clasped over his nose. "Sorry. I couldn't help it-"

Xanos straightened. I heard him mutter something, though I could not make out the words. Then I heard him take a deep, calming breath. "Never do that again," he said. His voice was surprisingly steady. "Ever."

The dragon shrank a little further into the floor. "S-sorry."

I remembered the line of fire scorching my eyebrows as it went past. "Ever," I agreed fervently.

"Sorry." The dragon's voice was miserable and embarrassed. "I can't help it. It just happens. Or doesn't. I think there must be a trick to it, but if there is, I haven't found it."

I heard the sorcerer's sharp, bitten-off growl. "Wonderful," he said. "We have a dragon that can breathe fire but has no idea how to control it." I saw the silhouette of his head turn. "Are you all right?" he asked me abruptly.

The question made me jump. "F-fine." I scrambled to my feet. "Only…stunned. I hit the floor too hard."

I felt the sorcerer's eyes on me. "Very well," he said. He paused, looking away. "Thank you," he added.

I felt warm. It was pleasant to be of use rather than a burden, for once. I was not used to having someone else do all of my work for me."You are welcome." I half-turned and gestured at Brown. "Come," I said. It seemed absurd to call a dragon as one might call a dog, but to my surprise, it padded after me obediently.

The light dimmed until I was forced to feel my way with hands and feet. Sometimes I felt a gap, as if there was a crack in the tunnel wall. I could not tell whether it branched or not, although once or twice I thought I felt air move. Then, as we rounded another bend in the tunnel, a reddish light appeared. There was a symbol on the wall. It glowed softly. "Hold," Xanos said.

I obeyed. "What is it?" I asked nervously.

I saw the sorcerer's hand sweep over the glowing symbol. After his hand passed, the symbol faded to nothing. "I explored to here," the sorcerer replied. His voice was pitched very quietly - almost too quietly to hear. "I will go ahead."

Brown squeaked. "You're leaving us alone again? Here?"

Xanos chuckled. "Do not worry, wyrmling," he said. "Nadiya will protect you."

"Oh." Dimly, I saw the wyrmling's tense stance relax into his usual slump. I noticed that he always held one wing higher than the other. I wondered if it was deliberate, or if his mother had simply never taught him how to stand straight. "Well. All right, then."

The dragon was the size of a young steer. How, exactly, he expected _me_ to protect _him_ I did not know. I turned to Xanos. For some reason, gooseflesh had suddenly risen on my arms and the back of my neck. "How long will-" I stopped. I realized that I could no longer even see the sorcerer's silhouette. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. "Xanos? Where are you?"

His voice ghosted back to me. It sounded amused. "Here," he said.

I could still not see him. "Where did you go?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt a scaled snout nudge my hand, and a hot, moist puff of breath on my skin. "It's all right, Nadiya," Brown said. His voice was disturbingly close. "He's just invisible. It's a harmless spell. Nothing to worry about."

I did not relax. My face settled into a confused grimace. "Just invisible," I repeated weakly. I pulled my hand away. "Of course. How silly of me."

I did not know when the sorcerer went away, or when he returned. I only knew that time stretched out interminably until he did. The dragon's breath seemed to billow in my ears. I could feel it uncomfortably near me, but I did not dare move too far away. I did not know where I was or what I might encounter. I had heard that other tribes, those who lived in the Saiyaddar, often went underground in the winter to escape the ice storms and surges of wild magic that struck the Anauroch in that season, but we had never suffered such harsh winters in our oasis. Perhaps the spirits felt that Kel-Garas was enough punishment. I did not know. All I knew is that there were likely to be things here which would try to kill me and in this dark I would not be able to see them well enough to hit them. So I waited.

Eventually, soft footsteps returned. "Good news," Xanos' voice murmured out of the dark. His voice was tense, excited. "The tunnel branches off and opens onto a cave further up – and I hear water. We may be able to follow it upstream."

Water would be welcome. I took a hesitant step forward. "Where?"

I felt another wave of gooseflesh rise on my skin, and then, abruptly, I saw him, standing little more than arm's length away. "Follow," he said once again, and turned without waiting for my reply.

I sighed and followed. What else could I do? I could barely see enough to walk, and the only other creature here that could was too much of a coward to range ahead.

The tunnel widened and brightened as we went, a strange, weak green glow slowly filling it. I felt air moving and shivered. These caves were as cool as night, but damp, clammy, and clinging. The musty scent of fungus seemed to cling to the back of my throat.

Eventually, a crack appeared ahead, through which shone more of that strange green light.

Xanos stopped. He pressed his back to the wall and gestured for me to follow suit. I crept forward, clinging close to the opposite wall and gesturing at the dragon to stay behind me. Then, when I reached the tunnel's end, I stopped, staring.

The tunnel opened into a vast space, stretching below and away and above. It must have been a cavern, but the walls and ceiling were so far away that they were hardly more than a distant, looming heaviness, more felt than seen. Every so often, faint lights, like fireflies, illuminated the distant stone. Below, carpeting the cavern's floor and creeping up its sides, something glowed pale and green. The light it gave off not strong, but it was enough to see by, dimly - much like I would have been able to see by the light of a full moon. I wondered what the green stuff was. It looked like moss, but moss did not glow like that. A burbling stream cut a dark, winding path through it.

I felt an unsettling heat on my back and smelled hot, oiled metal. It was shortly followed by a pressure on my shoulder and a soft snort uncomfortably close to my ear. "What's that green stuff?" Brown's voice asked, directly into my ear. "It smells like more mushrooms. Is it mushrooms?"

Xanos gave the dragon an amused glance. His eyes shifted to me. Softly, he snorted a laugh. "Yes," he said. "Though I would not recommend snacking on it, if I were you. Or burying yourself in it. Or digging a lair in it."

A huff of hot, not very pleasant-smelling breath hit my cheek. A wisp of smoke appeared in front of my eyes. "Yuck," the dragon said disgustedly. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Gods only know, wyrmling. Gods only know."

I stood frozen. The beardlike horns on the dragon's chin were digging into my shoulder. They were not sharp, but he was resting the weight of his head on my shoulder, and his head was not that light. "Brown," I said between my teeth.

"What?" the dragon asked absently.

"_What_ are you doing?"

I felt the dragon's head lift. "Looking," he said, in tones of surprise. "Why?"

I pushed its face away. The tiny scales on its lower jaw felt very smooth and hot. "Away," I growled.

The dragon backed away. "Oh," he said, his voice suddenly filled with dismay. "Oh! I was making you uncomfortable, wasn't I?" He snaked his head around my shoulder from behind me, gazing at me contritely from one fiery eye. "I'm sorry. It's just that you two-legged people are so confusing. You're all so _different._ Even when I'm human I don't quite know what to do with you. Some of you live right on top of each and hug and everything and so I think that's how I'm supposed to act, but then others are like Xanos, who looks like he might bite any time anybody comes close to touching him. Although he's not entirely human. Maybe it's an orc thing? Why, Ghufran wasn't even human at all and she always yelled at me when I-"

I grabbed his snout and pushed it away again. "Away," I repeated firmly.

Xanos looked on, his eyes gleaming with laughter. "Does her highness wish me to find a knight to rescue her from the dragon?" he offered with mock gallantry. "I have heard that this is a problem frequently encountered by princesses. Perhaps blue blood tastes better?"

I glared at him. "I do not need rescuing," I said stiffly. I thrust out a hand. The dragon's nose bounced off of it. He jerked back with a surprised squeak. "Thank you," I added. I edged away from the dragon, looking backwards to make sure it did not followed – it did not - and I looked out over the huge cavern. It was like looking out over my oasis from the top of the wadi – a valley in a cave. The rolling hillocks of fungus looked soft , like clouds. Here and there huge, milky white puffballs grew above it, nodding on slender stalks. A flutter of wings above hinted at the presence of bats or some other small, flying creatures. My irritation faded, drowned in awe. "Is this the Underdark?" I asked.

The sorcerer's amusement subsided. "Not quite," he answered. His eyes scanned the strange underground valley. "Its very upper reaches, perhaps. Were this the true Underdark, we would not be able to stand here whispering like this."

"Why?"

"Because something nasty would inevitably hear us and try to kill us."

"Oh." I blinked, taken aback. "Well…that is a good reason."

"Xanos thought so." He moved to the edge of the tunnel and stared over it, his hands on his hips. "Enough," he threw over his shoulder. "Climb down." He followed his own instructions. "We are wasting time," his voice came from below. "I want to see where this river goes."

Frowning, I came forward and peered over the edge of the tunnel's mouth. I saw that, while we were some ways above the cavern floor, there was a steep, rough slope leading down. My breath and some strength seemed to have returned to me, so it would not be a very difficult climb, but it would be a long one, and Xanos was already well ahead of me. That rankled. The sorcerer may have been my better at negotiating the outside world and killing his enemies, but I had never met a tree or a pile of rocks or a cliff I could not reach the top of. I refused to allow anyone to beat me at climbing - especially him.

I slid over the edge backwards, swiftly assessing handholds and feeling out toeholds. Going down took less strength, but more caution, at least until such time as I managed to grow eyes in the bottoms of my feet. Fortunately, bare feet were the next best thing.

The wall went past. Along the way I passed a small gray lizard which sat motionless on the wall as if it were flat ground. It had small, shiny black eyes and webbing along its legs. When it saw me, it turned its head to watch me, tongue flicking rapidly at the air. I left it where it was and climbed on. After I had gone some ways further down, I paused and twisted to look down over my shoulder. I had almost caught the sorcerer. I smirked.

I passed him at a point a little over halfway down the slope. On seeing his startled expression, I obeyed some strange, impish impulse and stuck my tongue out at him. His eyes widened. He made a grab for me. I twisted to one side, smirked at him, and hastened away, quick and sticky-footed as a gecko.

I slid the last little way and reached the bottom, giggling in spite of myself. Perhaps I was still feverish – or perhaps the burned mushrooms had had a strange effect on me. I did not normally behave like this. At least, not around anyone other than Zebah, Ali, and occasionally Hammad. Certainly not around strangers, although it seemed strange to me now to think of Xanos as a stranger.

Xanos caught me up a few moments afterwards. He seemed torn between exasperation and irritation. "You little…"

I spun to face him, bouncing a little on my toes. The green fungus on the cavern floor felt very spongy underfoot. It was hard to keep my balance. "I must be better than you at something," I retorted tartly.

He looked at me sideways. His expression was bemused, his eyes a little confused, as if he did not quite know what to make of me. "You are obviously feeling better," he observed.

"Obviously," I agreed blithely. I craned my neck. Far above, I saw Brown peeking out of the tunnel. "Xanos-"

"Yes?"

"Can dragons be stupid?"

Xanos arched an eyebrow. "Not that I have ever heard, but there are exceptions to every rule. Why do you ask?"

I pointed upwards. "Can't he turn back into a human and climb down?" It felt very strange to suggest such a thing so casually, but then, Brown was a very strange creature who did very strange things.

The sorcerer looked up. Above, Brown was very hesitantly placing first one foot, then the other on the ledge, like a cat trying to decide whether it ought to make a jump. "And spoil the fun?" Xanos asked. "Bite your tongue." He watched the dragon's struggles a moment longer. "Besides…would _you_ like to climb back up and tell him?"

I heard a startled squeak from above. Pebbles skittered downslope. The dragon vanished again. "My arms are too tired," I complained. "You do it."

The sorcerer gave me a bland sidelong look. "You have just demonstrated what an excellent little climber you are," he drawled. "You do it."

"No."

"If you do not, we might have to carry him down." Overheard, a paw groped briefly at the cavern wall outside the tunnel, then withdrew.

I shrugged. "He can carry himself down."

The groping paw was followed by a snout. A forked tongue flicked out nervously. Scaly nostrils flared. "He does not seem very convinced of that, himself," Xanos noted drily.

The rest of the dragon's head poked out of the tunnel, followed by his neck and shoulders and forepaws. He stood, peering about him as if uncertain what to do next.

Then, just when I thought we truly would have to climb back up and fetch him down, the dragon gathered himself and sprung off the edge, spreading his wings.

For a moment it seemed that the dragon would fall. Then his wings went taut, catching the air, and his fall turned into a long, swooping downward glide.

Entranced in spite of myself, I looked up, turning to watch the dragon's flight. He glided overhead in a soft rush of wind. I caught a glimpse of a glittering underbelly, and for a moment, the musty scent of the cave was replaced with the burning, dry-spice scent of the desert at noon.

My entrancement lasted the time it took the dragon to hit the ground. He hit the cavern floor with all four feet outstretched, and his glide turned into a long, stumbling run. His claws tore up great chunks of the cavern's soft green floor before he skidded to a stop.

The dragon looked down. He was up to his elbows in fungus. "Yech," he said. He clambered onto solid ground, wiping his claws clean on the ground and giving one rear leg a sharp, distasteful shake as soon as he was free, like a cat that had just stepped in a puddle. "How disgusting. I think I prefer the Spires. It's much drier there. No mushrooms at all. How can anyone stand this stuff?"

I shrugged. I did not see what was so distasteful, but then, I had not been up to my elbows in the stuff. "At least it gives some light to see by," I said.

The dragon considered that. "That's right. You mentioned. You humans can't see in the dark, can you? That's awful. How can you stand it?"

My voice was flat. "I light a torch." If these two odd creatures did not stop pointing out my so-called human weaknesses, I thought I would give them a taste of my human fist. Gritting my teeth, I beckoned. Xanos was already crossing the valley towards where the little river cut through. I did not want to lose sight of him again. "Come."

The ground dipped and climbed, and the spongy fungus was not easy to walk on. Every time I moved over the ground the ground seemed to move back. I consoled myself with the thought that Brown struggled far more than I did – with his sharp claws and heavier weight, he sank wrist-and-ankle deep with each step.

With the dragon crunching and wheezing along behind me, I caught up with Xanos again. Water bubbled ahead. I realized that I was thirsty. "Will the water be safe to drink?" I asked. I kept my voice low, though it did not echo as I had feared. The thick carpet of fungus seemed to absorb all sound.

The sorcerer hesitated. "Perhaps," he said at last. "Perhaps not. It is close to the surface and not stagnant, but this is still Orofin, and the wells that were poisoned may be even deeper down than this."

I frowned. "Do you think there is Talonite poison even here?"

He put his head to one side, pensive. "I do not think that it is not," he said guardedly.

I translated that to mean that he was not certain either way. I reached down and gave my water skin a shake. It was roughly half empty. "Then we must hurry," I said. "Our water will only last us so long."

"We have Ishiko's, if it comes to that."

Bitterness dug its claws into me at the mention of that woman's name. "And you would drink anything she left us?"

His face was still, but something in his voice sounded slightly evasive. "I have ways to detect the most common alchemical poisons."

I narrowed my eyes at him. For a man who claimed to have all of the answers, he was very good at dodging questions. "What of the uncommon ones?" I persisted.

He grimaced. "Xanos was hoping that you would not ask that."

I sighed once more and dropped the subject. "Well, at least it is cool and dark," I muttered. "We will drink less water down here."

The sorcerer's voice was fervent. "Gods, yes."

I eyed him. He moved easily over the uneven ground, showing no signs of sweat or strain as he had walking through a flat desert. "Is _this_ shade acceptable to you, then?" I asked tartly.

He did not rise to the bait. "Quite. Though it would be more pleasant if it were quieter."

I scowled, but took his hint. Now that I thought of it, I had been chattering. I did not know why. Nerves, perhaps. I could not see any immediate dangers, but the valley was broad and I felt very exposed.

We reached the stream after what felt like half a morning's walk. Distances seemed very deceiving in this place. Things which seemed to be close by turned out not to be so close after all, but we reached the little river's bank without incident, green fungus gradually giving way to lichen-covered rock and a flow of water that was several paces across at its widest point.

Xanos knelt on the bank, studying the water with narrowed eyes. I sank down not far from him, grateful for the reprieve. I was tired again. Behind us, Brown dropped heavily to his haunches, panting. He did not seem made for this trudging. The effort seemed to have taken away even his insatiable need to talk.

Silence fell, broken only by the burble of running water. My eyes idly traced the eddies of water as it flowed over the rocks. The bed was made of some dark rock, quite bare of vegetation. It made the water look almost black. Here and there, I caught little flashes of motion. Leaning closer, I thought I saw a flick of a pale fin. "Fish!" I exclaimed in surprise. I peered closer still. After a long moment, I was rewarded by the sight of a smooth white body slipping over the stone. It was covered in fine scales and had long, gracefully trailing fins, but stranger still… "It has no eyes! How odd. And yet it seems to know exactly where it is going." I watched the fish vanish downstream with a flick of its tail. A small laugh escaped me. "You would think it would bump into the rocks."

The sorcerer put a hand out as if to hold me back, though he stopped well short of touching me. He was giving me a strange look. "It has other senses to navigate by," he said. When it seemed I was not immediately going to topple into the creek in my haste to get a closer look at the strange fish, he took his hand away and stood. "We, in the meantime, will be heading in the opposite direction. So perhaps you will get to see more of your eyeless fish."

I looked at the water. It flowed towards the right, opposite to the way Xanos had pointed. I thought I understood his aim. Every Bedine child was taught from a very young age how to find water in case we needed to – and one of the more important lessons was that water always flowed downhill from its source. If we needed to go uphill to find a way out… "You think to follow it upstream to higher ground?" I asked curiously.

The sorcerer inclined his head to me. "Precisely."

His idea seemed sensible enough. I rose. My head hurt, but it was not too bad, and the coolness of this place seemed to soothe it. "We should walk in the water," I said thoughtfully. I indicated the torn-up ground where Brown had walked. "At least the dragon should. He is leaving tracks that an eyeless fish could see. Unless there are also fish in there that will eat our feet off. Are there?"

Xanos shrugged. "Quite probably," he said.

He was being deliberately difficult again. Briefly, I considered kicking him in the shins, but my feet were bare and his shins were hard. I contented myself with a long, speaking glare, which he returned with a bland and innocent stare of his own. I sniffed. "Brown," I said. "Get in."

The dragon crept up to the edge of the embankment. He inspected the water dubiously. "But-"

He had lied to me. He could do as I told him now. It was the least he could do. I reached out and grabbed him by one of his chin horns. "_In_." I thought for a moment. Then, in a milder tone, I added, "If you do this, I will tell you a bedtime story before we sleep tonight. Agreed?"

The dragon perked up almost immediately. "Oh, really?" he said. "Wonderful! Mother used to tell us stories, too. With illusions, even. I don't suppose you can make illusions?" Still talking, the dragon splashed noisily into the river. His tail fell in after him with a splash that threw a sprinkling of droplets against my legs. "No…no. I suppose not," he went on sadly. He turned his head towards me, and his tongue flicked out between his fangs. "You don't really smell like magic. Maybe a little – every Bedine I've met so far has a _teensy_ aura, at least, which is awfully strange when you think about how much Bedine hate magic - but not like Xanos. Xanos' aura makes me feel like I've got a thornbush stuck up my nose. And the thornbush is on fire. No offense, Xanos, but your aura's dreadfully strong." The wyrmling shrugged cheerfully and splashed onwards. "But that's all right. I like stories even without the magic."

Xanos and I watched him go. The sorcerer was the first to speak. "You seem to have a knack for dealing with infants," he observed.

I shrugged. "I have a younger sister and two younger brothers," I said. A lump rose in my throat. Malik was dead. Spirits knew what state Zebah and Fayid were in. "I know how to manage children."

Xanos grunted. "What story were you intending to tell him?" he asked curiously.

I stepped carefully into the water. The rocks were slippery, but if I placed my feet carefully they were not too bad. And if I fell, I fell. At least my feet would be clean. "I do not know," I admitted. "Most of the stories I grew up knowing do not seem to be true."

Xanos was silent for a long moment. When I turned, I saw him folding his robe and draping it over his shoulder. He had a pouch slung over his chest that I had not seen before. "Tell them anyway," he said at last. He stepped carefully into the water in front of me, and I saw why he had taken his robe off again – its hem would have gotten quite soaked otherwise. "The wyrmling is not a normal child," he added, turning away and casting the words over his shoulder like pebbles. "He knows enough of the world not to believe the lies."

I watched the muscles in the sorcerer's shoulders move as he walked. "Then why tell them?" I asked.

"Because they are sweet," Xanos replied. I could not see his face, but his voice was grim. Then he gave a short laugh. "And because if you are talking, he will not be," he added, less grimly.

I could not argue with that, though I found myself wishing that the world was not so full of lies.

_One true thing_, I thought. _Spirits, just show me one true thing in all of this, and I will swallow all of my questions. _But the spirits did not answer. They hardly ever did, so I supposed it was very silly of me to expect an answer of them now.

Shaking off my heavy thoughts, I followed the dragon and the sorcerer through the glowing valley.


	48. Chapter 48

_A/N: This is the chapter where I put on a pair of those glasses with the fake nose and mustache, change my name, and move to another country before my readers find out where I live and have me committed._

* * *

Fish nibbled at my ankles. Salamanders wriggled over the rocks, plump and slimy and pale. Fat purple toads stared at me with the bulging eyes and then fell into the water with a plop.

Chilly water lapped at my knees. I had rolled up my pants, which may have been a mistake. Every time the water brushed against the scrapes on my knees, it stung. On the bright side, I could no longer feel my feet, which was good because I suspected that I may have broken a toe.

The river had narrowed, then widened again, though the cavern itself had narrowed until its sides were only a short walk from the river's shores. Here, the river's currents were faster, the rocks slipperier. Brown had slipped several times, but his scales seemed far more resistant to scrapes than my skin, and he was none the worse for wear. Even Xanos had slipped – fresh blood spotted the bandages over his hands.

The sound of rushing water increased until at last we reached a steep rise where water spilled over a lip of rock that stood higher than my head. The shallows beneath the fall churned, foaming as the water pattered down in a tattered sheet.

Xanos called a halt. "Out," he said. Following his own instructions, he tramped to shore, his boots squelching. "Gah."

I staggered up onto the embankment, sodden and stinging. My breath was thin again. I felt like a freshly-hooked tigerfish. Sinking to the ground, I decided to take a moment to rest. Perhaps longer.

Brown surged up after me, water sleeting from his feet. He was gasping. "C-c-cold," he said, his teeth chattering. He scrambled up the embankment, his claws scraping long channels in the lichen. "L-let's n-never do that again, p-please."

I lifted my head. Even my hair was wet. How had my hair gotten wet? I had only been in water up to my knees. Occasionally my hips. But certainly not my head. "Agreed," I wheezed. Sensation was returning to my toes. I tried flexing them and winced. My left little toe did not want to bend, which implied that it might indeed be broken. Briefly, I considered saying something. Then I discarded the idea. I had no desire to resurrect the sandals-versus-boots argument right now, and if I heard the words, 'I told you so,' from that sorcerer's lips, I would hold his head under the water until he took them back.

Xanos had disappeared over the rise. His voice drifted back to me, nearly inaudible over the falls. "Fascinating." he said.

I gave up on trying to finger-comb the tangles out of my hair. It was wet enough that it just broke instead of detangling. "What is it?"

"It is better seen than explained. Come look."

I groaned and sat up. "I was afraid you would say that," I mumbled.

"Stop complaining and get your arse up here, Nadiya."

_What of the rest of me?_ I thought mulishly. _Can it stay here? _I kept that thought firmly to myself, however. Gods only knew what response he would have if I said such a thing out loud.

Brown reared up onto his hind legs. This made him just tall enough to stretch his head up and peek over the rise. "How pretty," he marveled. He dropped back to all fours before lumbering over to me and prodding my shoulder with his nose. "Xanos is right. You might want to see this, Nadiya."

I sighed. "Very well," I grumbled. Pushing the dragon's snout away, I stood and made my way up the slope, leaving wet footprints on the stone. My steps slowed as I reached the top.

The top of the rise leveled out onto a plateau. It held an oasis as wide across as my own oasis during the rainy season. It was this water which seemed to feed the falls, though the oasis itself seemed very still. The water was pitch black and mirror smooth. Occasionally, little concentric ripples disturbed the surface. Otherwise, it was so still, the reflections in it so perfect and clear, that it was difficult to see where the land ended and the water began.

The cavern wall rose on the far side of the lake. It was not immediately obvious whether some flow of water fed it or whether this was the water's end, but the cavern itself did appear to reach a dead end at the plateau.

Xanos stood at the water's edge, looking down. I approached tentatively, stopping a long pace behind him. This seemed like a special place, and special places were where spirits lived. I did not think it would be wise to go too near the water, just in case the spirits here considered that a defilement of their home. "It looks like an oasis," I said, my voice hushed. "What is an oasis doing here?"

The sorcerer looked over his shoulder at me. His eyes flicked down to my bare calves, then back up to my face. "Technically, the proper term is probably 'pond'," he said clinically. He turned away again. "Though your question is otherwise valid. It may be the source of the river – or it may be fed by something else. An underground spring, perhaps. Or a more deeply buried river yet."

I studied the water for signs of a current. "If there is a river," I said. "How do we find it?"

Xanos turned away from the shore, raising his eyebrows. "By looking, of course," he said. He reached up. His hands came away holding the clasp that usually kept his hair bound. His hair was not particularly long, not even reaching his shoulders, but as soon as it was free it nevertheless fell into a startlingly manelike disarray, as if resentful of having been constrained for so long. "Here, hold this," he said, and handed the little silver clasp to me. I took it reflexively, confused. "Thank you. Now hold this." I received his robe, neatly folded and hung over my forearm like a blanket on a washing line. His hands went to his necklaces, lifting them over his head. He grimaced as one of them snagged on his hair. "And these." Precious metals and stones and beads dropped into my startled hands.

I stared up at him, my arms overflowing. "What are you doing?" I asked, bewildered.

He shrugged, rings glittering on his fingers as he undid the laces of his shirt. The rings, evidently, he would keep. "I would rather go without a few protections than risk strangling myself to death on a rock somewhere," he explained evenly. "Nor would I care to risk losing a valuable magical artifacts because a clasp let loose and one of those amulets sank to the bottom of a lake."

I continued to stare at him. Horror rose in me. "You are going to _swim_?"

He shrugged again. "Yes. Why not? Xanos grew up in the mountains. Going for a swim in a cold lake is nothing new to me." His hands went to the hem of his shirt, making to lift it over his head. I squeaked and turned away, my face suddenly burning. A moment later, I heard his laugh. It was scornful. "What?" he asked, his voice bitter. "Afraid to see a half-orc with his clothes off?" He snorted derisively. "Too bad, princess. I will not travel through cold caverns in wet clothes just to spare your delicate sensibilities."

I stared, mute and paralyzed, at the far wall. One corner of my mind mused that this was the second time in recent memory I had been struck so still. Once had been due to some sort of magical gas. The other was due to the enormous pink cloud of awkwardness and mortification that seemed to be filling my entire head.

Cloth fell. I heard Brown gasp. "Oh my gods!" he squeaked. "What happened to your side?"

Xanos grunted. "A medusa happened." I heard what sounded like a boot hitting the ground. "She scored a lucky hit with a fireball."

"Oh. Really? I didn't know they could do that. I thought they just turned you to stone."

Another boot hit the ground. Xanos' voice was bleak. "That, as well."

"Oh." Brown sounded very taken aback. "Goodness. That sounds terribly unpleasant."

"You have no idea, dragon. No. Bloody. Idea."

"No, and I don't think I want to have one. Um. Does it…hurt? The scarring, I mean."

"Not anymore, though it does sadly mar my stunning good looks." I heard a belt rattle.

Brown cleared his throat. "Er…"

The rattling stopped. Xanos sighed. "What _now_?"

"What kinds of fish live in this lake, do you think? I mean…little ones? Or big ones? And how big do you think their teeth might be? To the nearest inch, say."

There was a long pause. "Excellent question," Xanos said eventually. I heard another rattle. "On second thought, perhaps I will keep my britches on after all."

"You don't have to get all snippy about it. I don't care either way. I'm just saying-"

I heard Xanos' teeth grinding. "Dragon-"

"What?"

"What, in the name of all that is holy, possessed you to use the word _snippy_ in this particular context?"

"Sorry."

It should not have been possible to hear someone roll their eyes, but somehow I felt as if I had just heard Xanos roll his. "Oh, for gods' sakes…stop apologizing, you maleficent nincompoop."

"S-" The dragon gulped and spluttered. He seemed to be choking on his own tongue. "Er. Nevermind."

Xanos heaved another sigh. "Close enough," he muttered. I heard more splashing steps. "Hmm. One hopes that this is not the domain of some ancient aboleth. Then again, getting eaten will dispose of my corpse quite nicely." He raised his voice. "Do me a favor, both of you-"

I cleared my throat. Twice. Then I managed to find my tongue somewhere amidst the pink clouds of mortification. "Yes?"

"If you see me surface and I am floating face-down," the sorcerer said blithely, "-I am most likely dead. Assuming that whatever killed me does not get you, kindly dry me out and burn me until no drop of blood remains. Then scatter all but a handful of the ashes. Use those to write a note to Thimm. Keep it short and simple. _"Up yours, Poisoner."_ will do nicely."

Brown's voice was mulish. "You won't die," he insisted. "We won't let you." His claws scraped. His tone turned anxious. "Right, Nadiya?"

I stared at the far wall and swallowed. "He will not die," I said hoarsely. A flicker of humor momentarily broke through my embarrassment. "He is too obstinate to die."

Xanos snorted. "Coming from you, princess, that is practically a professional assessment," he said darkly.

I did not answer. After a moment, I heard a loud splash. Then silence.

Behind me, Brown fussed. "He didn't have to say that thing about dying," he complained. "Why did he say that thing about dying? Now he's gone and made me all nervous. Maybe I should go in after him. But it's cold. And I hate swimming. What do we do?" I heard a distant splash. Brown's voice was suddenly relieved. "Oh. Thank goodness. There he is. He's swimming. Not floating. That's good. Not floating is good."

I half-turned, as afraid of what I might see as I was curious to know what on earth the sorcerer was doing. "Where is he?" I asked.

"Towards the middle of the lake," Brown answered. "He just surfaced…" Another soft splash. "Oh. Never mind. He's gone back down again. Goodness, he's covering ground fast. Er. Well, covering water fast, I suppose it would be. Are we sure half-orcs aren't also part fish?"

At this point, I was not certain of anything, least of all what Xanos was and what he was doing. "Hush," I said. Warily, I turned so that I stood sideways to the lake. That way, at least, I could keep an eye on what Xanos was doing while still being able to turn away and spare myself any further embarrassment.

The sorcerer appeared a few more times in different locations, each time surfacing for air and, from the way he paused and looked around, to get his bearings before diving back down again. Eventually, he appeared next to the cavern wall. The darkness there was too much for me to see details, but I thought I saw him raise one dripping arm and trace some kind of figure on the wall. After a moment, a strange glyph flickered into life, glowing as red as a hot coal. A moment later, he turned and dove back beneath the water. I caught a brief glimpse of bare shoulders and a broad back, ruddy in the glyph's light.

The next time he surfaced, it was near the center of the lake. Then he struck out towards the shore, propelling himself through the water with powerful, alternating strokes of his arms. When he reached the shallows, he slowed, treading water. The thought came to me that this would be the appropriate time for me to look away. My body, however, seemed to operate on a slight delay, just an instant behind my eyes, and by the time I finally thought to turn it was altogether too late.

The sorcerer found his feet and he rose, emerging to stand waist-deep in the dark waters of the lake. He reached up with both hands to sluice water from his hair, which hung slick and black. Water streamed off of him – pouring from his hair, dripping from his cheeks and chin, winding in rivulets down his throat to follow the line of his collarbone and pool in the hollow of his neck, while other little rivulets wound over his massive shoulders and around the muscles in his chest only to join again to follow a single glistening path that wound down and further down…

I reeled. Too late, I whipped to face the other way. Mortification painted my cheeks a deep, screaming red. I knew I should have looked away, just as I should have looked away when he worked his magic against the Talonites. Why, why, _why_ did I never do as I knew I should?

I did not know why I felt such panic. I had seen men in such a state of undress before. I had seen Ali and many others fight stripped to the waist, wearing nothing but loose trousers. Only…Xanos was nothing like Ali. Ali had been tightly muscled, but slender and gracile. Xanos, on the other hand, was as different from my brother as night was to day - a hulking, sinewy beast of a man with raw power looming in every line of him. It was a wonder the water did not boil where he stood. My face certainly felt on fire…_no! Spirits, no! Do not think of fire!_

I heard the swish of water around the sorcerer's legs as he waded ashore. "Good news," I heard him say. "There is something down there."

Brown sounded as if he was nearly jumping up and down in eagerness. "What? What is it?"

"A tunnel, but it seems to have been caved in," the sorcerer replied. "There is a great deal of loose rock and a very small gap – too small for me to fit through. The current is stronger there, however, so I would wager that we have found the lake's source."

"How far down is it?"

"Not far. Perhaps halfway down. The lake bed is quite muddy, so it is hard to know how deep it truly goes." I heard the water swish again – was he turning? "Well," he said then. "Down we go."

The dragon stopped bouncing. "We?" he asked warily.

"_Yes_, we," the sorcerer said in exasperation. "You are coming with me, wyrmling. Some of those rocks are too large for me to move alone, and I do not intend to give myself an aneurysm trying."

"But…it's cold." The dragon was whining again. It made me want to hit him. Not enough to risk turning around, however.

Xanos' voice was mocking. "So you would like to stay here, then?" he needled the dragon. "Wait until Thimm catches up to you to fillet you into your component parts?"

Brown huffed out an annoyed breath. "Don't be so mean. I didn't say I wanted _that_," he grumbled. Then he relented. "All right, all right. I'll come. But who will watch Nadiya?" I heard the dragon move, and felt eyes on my back. "Nadiya? You've gone awfully quiet. Are you all right?"

_No_. "Yes," I croaked. "Go." _Please, please, just go._ "I will wait here."

Xanos spoke up. "Leave her." His voice was taut, though I did not understand why. "She has a sword. She can defend herself if needs be."

Brown's sounded unconvinced. "If you say so." He spoke to me. "We won't be long, Nadiya. I promise. Stay safe, all right?"

I nodded mutely. After a pause, I heard them move away. Then I heard two splashes – one loud, and one even louder.

Some of the tension drained from me when they had gone. Not all. I felt very small in the vast space of the cavern, and very out of place. I looked around me – the walls seemed so huge and far away, the cavern floor so open and endless, and I a single, vulnerable little creature huddled in the midst of it. I imagined that if some bat roosting up near the ceiling were to look down on me, I would seem little more than a dot.

I shivered and turned to watch the lake. It was very still. I wondered what would happen if the others were to drown and I was left alone. I hoped they did not drown. Brown was dishonest and Xanos was infuriating, but they were the closest thing to friends that I had.

The glyph on the wall seemed important – Xanos seemed to use them to mark spots he wanted marked – so I stared at it until I began to picture it on the insides of my eyelids whenever I blinked.

After an interminable time, I saw movement. Something swirled beneath the surface, and then, in the next moment, great bubbles fountained up, bursting against the cavern wall. I jumped, but by the time the first panic had come and gone, the bubbles were already subsiding.

All was silent for a few more heartbeats. Then, slowly, the water began to ripple and move. Currents formed and gathered speed.

Shortly afterwards, two heads emerged from the water. The first was yellowish-brown and horsey. It was followed by another, this one black-haired and green-skinned. The dragon began to swim back. Xanos, to my surprise, dove below again while Brown came back to shore.

The dragon clawed through the water, panting and wheezing, wings flailing as if trying to beat the lake into submission. He held his head up rigidly, squinting his eyes so that no water would splash them. When he reached the shore at last, he dragon heaved himself up on it and lay gasping there like a dying fish. Steam rose off of his shivering body. "I am never doing that again," he gasped.

"Where has Xanos gone?"

"He went through the tunnel to have a look."

I started up in alarm. "Alone?"

"Don't worry. He's invisib-" Brown stopped. His expression went strange, and his throat began to work. Then he began to hack like a cat with a mat of fur in its throat. After a few heaves, he turned his head aside and spat out a fish. It flopped around in a gape-mouthed panic before finally tumbling off into the shallows. The dragon turned back to me. "Sorry," he wheezed. "You know, I was sort of wondering why my throat felt funny." He had the good grace to look embarrassed. "I guess now I know, huh?"

I had no idea how to respond to what I had just seen. So I decided not to. If I could contrive to forget having seen it at all, I would be even happier. "He is invisible?" I guessed.

Brown nodded. "Yes. And he can always set-"

A hollow, crackling boom came from somewhere – muffled, but loud nonetheless. The ground seemed to lurch and quiver. Below the still-glowing glyph, the inky depths of the lake lit up for an instant with a fiery orange glow.

The dragon's mouth was hanging open. He shut it with a snap. "-things on fire," he finished weakly. "Oh, dear. Oh, my goodness. That didn't sound good."

For a moment after hearing the explosion I thought my heart had stopped. It soon disabused me of the notion by lurching into a gallop. I shoved the sorcerer's jumble of jewelry in my belt pouch and cinched it tight. The robe I left where it was – there was no way to carry it and swim at the same time. I reached out and grabbed the dragon by his chin horns. "Show me this tunnel," I said flatly. "Now."

For once, the dragon did not argue. He stood and began padding towards the lake. I let him go. "Will you…no, you won't be able to see down there, can you?" He waded into the shallows until the water nearly touched his belly. I saw his sides expand with a deep breath. Then he looked over his shoulder, lowering his wing enough to see me. "All right," he said. He winced at his own words. "I'll take you there. But…"

I forged my way into the shallows, the water tugging at my legs. The current was still growing. "But?" I barked impatiently. These words were wasting time.

"But you'll have to go ahead. You'll fit through the tunnel – you're small – but I might have to, you know, _change_, and Xanos might not have time for that. I'll follow when I can." He turned and lowered himself, hind feet first, so that he floated with foreclaws anchoring him to the rocky shelf of the shallows. "Hold on to me," he added nervously. "Tightly, mind. I don't want to lose you down there."

The feeling was mutual – I did not want to be lost. Pushing forward, shuddering at the shock of the water as it rose to my waist and then to my chest, I reluctantly wrapped my arms around the dragon's neck. I wondered whether I should believe him when he said that he would follow. I wondered, too, whether there were spirits here, and whether they would be angry by our intrusion. Then orange light shone again in the depths, and I decided that I did not really care either way. We needed Xanos. I doubted we would live long in this place without him. More than that, though, I owed him a debt - for the evil I had done to him, and for the good he had done for me in spite of it. I would most likely have been dead several times over if not for the sorcerer.

"Hold your breath," the dragon warned, and let go of the rocks.

I sucked in my breath and held on. Black waters closed in over my head.


	49. Chapter 49

The cave beyond the lake was the size of a grand hall, but no larger. Stalactites and stalagmites thrust from floor and ceiling, some crusted with crystals. The air stank of dead fish and rotting fungus and what I guessed, from my experiences on Drogan's farm and knowledge of Underdark fauna, to be rothe shit. Heaps of the vile stuff loomed left and right. Several of them were burning. This did not improve the smell.

I kept moving, placing my feet carefully to avoid slipping on some random streak of dreck. My ears strained for every sound. My opponent, whoever and whatever he was, had gone invisible. I had tried to flush him out by laying down fire as far and wide as I could in every direction. I had succeeded in creating a great deal of light and making a great deal of noise, but so far it seemed that I had not succeeded in killing my opponent. I suspected that he was shielded in some way. Worse, I had left quite a few of my protections behind with Nadiya.

_Speaking of which…what I would give for an amulet of true seeing_, I thought. I was the wrong Messarmos for this sort of thing. My mother had been the clairvoyant, not I. I was stuck stalking him blindly until he made a mistake.

_Well, we shall just have to lure him_ _into a mistake,_ I thought. It was risky, but what was life without a little risk? Deliberately, I kicked a loose rock. It skittered away before vanishing into the nearest dung heap with a revoltingly moist thump.

Silence. Then, so softly that I nearly missed it, I heard the click of a wand being readied. I stood as still as I could, senses peeled. The acrid, metallic smell of ozone was all the warning I had of what was coming in the split second before the spell was done.

I dropped flat to my stomach. Lightning blasted through where I had just been standing. I felt the ends of my hair float upwards, crackling. I lifted my head, searching. Another soft noise attracted my attention - soil tumbling down the side of a pile and pattering to the ground as if disturbed by an invisible foot. _There._ I shoved myself back against the nearest rock and flung out a hand, fingers outspread. I focused the heat in my veins into five pinpoints, and five arrows of flame shot from my hand, one from each finger. I caught a glimpse of a globe flaring, glowing with the rainbow sheen of a bubble before fading again. My spell went up in five puffs of smoke. Unhinged laughter echoed across the cavern.

Fury rose in my throat. I could have spit enough bile to etch steel. I had hit him, but with his shielding it had done me little good. I rolled to my feet, feeling the roil of power like magma in my veins and in my head. _I need to move_. At least I had learned a little more about my opponent with that gamble – namely, that he had a globe of invulnerability and a wand of lightning at his disposal - but I had exposed my position in the process. Re-establishing my invisibility would help, but Heurodis had taught me that invisibility was poor protection against a lucky guess and a sufficiently large fireball.

Seeking cover, I slipped between two tall stalagmites. With the power in me, I could feel the whisper of light hitting my skin, flickering like the heat from a fire. I twisted it the way Drogan had taught me, taking that faint sensation of heat and diverting it away from me. When I could no longer see my own hands in front of me, I went still and waited.

Soon enough a sing-song voice rose. "Oh, little intruder..." Lightning flashed, illuminating a growth of crystals in stark white. Some of them exploded. Shards tinkled to the floor. "Come out. Let me see you." the voice went on. I heard footsteps – one normal, one a lame-legged drag. They sounded light, so my opponent was most likely small. "No use hiding. I know you are there. Why are you here? To raid my treasures?"

_Yes, because what I really need in my life right now is another pile of shit_. I struggled to breathe shallowly and hold myself motionless. It was not easy. Power prickled at the insides of my skin, begging to be let out. I felt my body quiver with the effort of holding it in.

The limping footsteps came to a stop. The voice tittered. "Are you a thief? Or are you bait?" it asked, sly and slightly insane. A wand clicked again. Lightning blasted through a dung heap. The smell of electrocuted shit was one I could happily have gone my entire life without knowing. "Bait. That is it. Are you bait, to distract me while they sneak up on me? Are they here now? Tell the truth, and maybe I will not hurt you."

He was no longer moving, and I thought I knew where he was now. That was the advantage of fighting an insane opponent. They never knew when to stop talking.

Quickly, I slipped out from my hiding place. _Hold him first, _I told myself, and I imagined the click of spider mandibles and sway of sticky strands in the dark. Then I spun the image out into a fine line of power, and delicate white webs began to coalesce in the cavern's stinking, smoking air. When I thought I had fed enough strength into them, I let them go. They fell. I felt the webbing jerk and heard cursing.

_Good. Caught him. _I doubted my webbing would penetrate his shield enough to hold him, but with any luck it might hamper him._ Now bleed him. _I needed something that would keep him occupied and chip away at his shields. I thought of bitterness - a feeling I knew well - and then I lifted my hands and let it all well up and flow outwards, pushed by tiny, controlled bursts of power. An acrid green fog rose up, spreading out over the same area as the webbing.

I heard shrieks of pain and saw a creature flicker into view, surrounded by a purplish, ovoid spell shield. My spells were making the shield flare. Some of the acid fog and webbing hissed and went up in smoke on touching it. Others managed to slip past the barrier, enough to make the creature inside the shield flail around with his stave.

My opponent was as short and squat as a dwarf, but there the resemblance ended. He was lame, hunched, twisted, with skin as pale as a worm's and eyes that glowed a sickly yellow. His hair and beard grew in white tufts, seemingly at random. His robes were a patchwork of hides and rags. He yanked fragments of webbing from them angrily, casting it out through his shield with a curse.

_A bloody derro_, I thought in alarm. I slipped back into concealment, leaving my fog and web to do their work. _I suppose that might explain the trash heaps_. Gods knew why the derro did anything, but it was entirely possible that the voices in his head had commanded him to devote his life to sculpting enormous statues of himself out of manure. Derro were known to be insane degenerates, often murderously so. Those murderous impulses may have explained why his first response on sensing an intruder had been to lob a fireball at me.

The screaming stopped. "Bad bait! Diirinka curse you! Eat your eyes! Peel your skin!" the derro howled. I heard a rustle and a click. "Away! Away, I say!" I could not see him, and so it was the sudden backwash of a broken spell, like needles stabbing into my brain, that told me what he had done.

I lowered my hands from my head. Chanting pounded in my head like a drum. _Bastard has a wand of dispelling_. I gritted my teeth and tried to think through the pain. He could not see me, but was shielded and could dispel any spell I cast to erode his shields. Moreover, he was casting a spell…

The syllables clicked into understanding. I jumped away from my shelter just before the last one fell. If I was right, I wanted to be on open ground.

Nearby, the stone floor cracked, then ruptured into rubble. An inky tentacle thrust upwards through the broken rock. It was blacker than black – not just absent of any color, but a thing of the void that sucked all color and light from the air around it.

I spared a quick glance around. More tentacles were rising from the buckling, heaving ground. I swallowed a curse and turned to the nearest, whipping a hissing line of acid across it. It twitched and lashed out, clipping me on the hip hard enough to fling me into the nearest stalagmite. The impact jarred the breath out of my lungs. Worse, my leg had gone numb from my hip downwards.

I held myself upright on my one good leg, supporting myself on the stalagmite. My head throbbed and spun. A slash of my hand sent fire at the nearest tentacle, slicing it off at the base. It collapsed, dissolving into black motes which vanished before they hit the ground.

I looked up. There were stalactites hanging from the cavern's ceiling. A thought struck me, and I redirected my fire up, towards the base of the stalactites. If magic did not work, then perhaps blunt force trauma might.

I concentrated my fire – harder, tighter, sharper. It slammed into the stone, making it waver. A little more – _there. _A stalactite broke loose . For a moment, it seemed to stand in midair, hovering. Then it fell, gathering speed as it went. It crashed into the cavern floor, shattering into hard, sharp shards. The derro screamed – I thought for a moment I had caught him. Then I saw him scurrying away to hide between two trash piles, chanting what sounded like a stoneskin spell. No matter. If I hit him enough even that would fall. I took a breath and braced myself for another strike, hoping I would not collapse the ceiling on myself in the process.

_What the Hells_, I thought. _We all have to die sometime_. And perhaps, given how aimless and weary I had felt ever since Undrentide, death might not be so bad.

It was then that I heard it – a soft splash and a harsh intake of breath. I managed to turn my head enough to see a tangle of dark hair and dark eyes before Nadiya pulled herself, dripping, onto solid ground.

I spun back to the derro. I wished I could scream. I wanted to. If the sight of Nadiya had not been enough, I felt a painful pinching at the base of my skull as her geas exerted its pressure on me. What was she doing here? I had told her to stay behind. She had even fewer protections than I did.

Gritting my teeth and cursing both myself and the woman for fools, I began to barrage the derro with fire – spheres of flame, darts, whirling spears, fire in all forms I could shape it. Depending on the strengths of his shields, it might not hurt him, but it would certainly distract him.

I heard the quiet hiss of metal being drawn from a scabbard. I hoped the derro did not have my ears. I spared Nadiya a glance and saw her stepping softly on bandaged feet. She had her sword out. It glinted in the light of my fires, silver-orange. Then she slipped behind a pile, going 'round to the far side. My best guess was that she intended to sneak up behind the mage, though gods knew what she intended to do after that. His stoneskin would block her blade, and then what?

Regardless, I could not risk letting up my fire and going into hiding, or else it would leave Nadiya open to discovery. Nor could I drop the ceiling on him now – too much risk that I would hit her. Damn the woman. I had told her to stay put. What had gotten into her?

I could no longer see the derro or Nadiya. Reluctantly, I dropped my fire and waited. I could not risk hitting her by mistake.

Nothing. For a long moment, nothing.

Then I heard another quiet splash and spun to see Brown, human once more, pull himself up out of the water. When he saw me, he held a finger to his lips. His face was fearful and drawn. It was strange to see it again. Had I any doubts that his story was true, this, I thought, would have settled them.

The chanting began almost immediately, though I could not see the bloody derro _or_ the bloody Bedine, and until I knew where she was I did not dare to shoot. I ground my teeth and listened, ready to jump and tackle the idiot into the water if I had to – though with one leg paralyzed there was little chance of success there.

As he listened to the derro's chanting, Brown's expression went from terrified to quizzical. "Oh." He laughed sunnily. "_That?_ That's all right. That's not scary at all." He drew himself up. His gaze turned inwards. Then, as the derro finished his spell, the boy…rose.

In the time it would have taken me to sneeze, shoulders bulked to wings, damp hair and skin changed to dripping scales, a nose elongated into a snout, fingers lengthened and sharpened to talons, and a tail appeared from nowhere to sway behind him. "Xanos," he said, as the derro's chanting reached a shriek. "I think you should get down."

I listened to the derro. Then I heeded the dragon's advice and dropped to the floor. He stepped forward and over me, his talons screeching into the stone in front of my face and his scaled underbelly nearly grazing my back. "Hold still," I heard him say, and saw wings snap closed around me right before the fireball hit.

A loud crackling hit along with the heat. It blistered through the gaps where the dragon's wings met and rippled over the membranes that connected each fine flight bone. The light turned his wings a translucent orange, laced with crimson webs of veins. Steam rose, blurring my vision. Had the fire hit me directly, without the dragon's wings in the way, I thought it would have finished the job Heurodis had left undone. As it was, I felt my skin redden and prickle from the heat.

"Ooh. That tickled." I heard the dragon's voice say from above. I thought I heard a quiet, metallic clinking sound as his scales cooled. "But I do feel all lovely and dry now! Thank you!" He parted his wings, letting in a blast of air that felt positively icy after the heat that had just passed. "Um. I don't think he liked that. He looks angry. Xanos? What do we do now?"

The derro did seem angry. Either that or, by the way he was flailing around, he had just found and stepped on the Underdark's only anthill. Thankfully, his rage seemed to have temporarily stolen his ability to cast. As far as I was concerned, he had only himself to blame. Brass dragons bathed their eggs in fire. They breathed it. They basked in it. Anyone who launched a fireball at one deserved what he got.

I managed to get my hands under me. Between the fires I had lit in the derro's trash heaps and the spells we had both thrown, the cave was beginning to fill with smoke and steam, compromising visibility. "Let me up," I gritted, and the dragon backed away, freeing me. I looked for Nadiya, but she was…

_Oh, Hells. _I saw a shape creeping up behind the derro, a shadow in the smoke. _There she is. _The geas tightened like a vise. So did my chest. If I hit him hard enough to finally dig through his spells, I would hit her. But if I did not hit him…

The woman took the decision out of my hands. She stepped up behind the derro and swung her sword at his neck.

It should not have worked. By rights, her blow should have bounced right off of the little mage's stoneskin and rebounded into her face.

It should not have worked, but somehow, it did. Nadiya's ancient, battered scimitar first sheared through the derro's shielding as if nothing were there. Light flared, and the spell winked out. When the sword met the back of his neck, it did the same to his stoneskin, which melted back to flesh the instant the blade touched it.

Then the blade, its momentum unbroken, scythed through the derro's neck.

Nadiya spun, following her blade through its arc. Blood sprayed out behind it. The derro's head thumped to the ground. After a moment, his body caught up to events and followed suit.

I watched the blood pour out of the derro's neck, pooling on the ground. I felt about as stunned as he must have felt.

_A mage-killer, _I thought. Ice sluiced through my veins. _She is carrying a mage killer._ _I have spent close to a month no more than a hundred paces from a woman who wields a godsdamned spellbreaker sword. _

I felt eyes on me and look up. Nadiya was staring at me, her expression strangely furious. Her hands were bloodied, her hair was atangle, her clothes were soaked to the skin, and she was breathing hard, which I desperately wished she would stop doing, at least until her blouse was dry and no longer clinging to her…_her_ like that.

My feet seemed suddenly cleaved to the stone, and my tongue to the roof of my mouth. The woman looked like some unholy amalgamation of a miniature ogress with an avatar of Sharess. An abundance of hard muscle and soft flesh warred for space beneath the confines of her clothing. Both sides seemed equally matched, and at some point during the conflict they had apparently annihilated anything on their battlefield which even remotely resembled a straight line.

_Gods help me_, I thought. The ice in my veins thawed, then melted, then turned to steam. I felt slightly faint. _I should _never_ have made her give up that potato sack she was wearing. _At the very least, I should not have insisted that we bury it in the desert. At the time it had seemed a prudent precaution against the risk of discovery. Now, however, the risk of discovery was far outweighed by the risk of losing my sanity._  
_

Nadiya advanced on me though the smoke, apparently oblivious to the effect the water had had on her wardrobe. She was still holding her ancestor's mage-killer. Blood dripped from it. A little too late, I looked up at her face. Her eyes were huge and dark and her full lips were pulled back in a snarl more suited to a wild animal than a human. A smear of the derro's blood had somehow ended up on one cheek. I had often mockingly called her a savage. Now, she looked every inch the part. She was slightly terrifying to behold. She was also quite thrilling, which in its own way was even more terrifying.

Reflexively, I backed away. My retreat did not seem to slow her. It only seemed to make her angrier. She reached me and flung aside her sword. Then, while I stood stunned, she reached out, planted both hands on my chest, and shoved me backwards. "If you ever…" she panted, punctuating each pause with another shove. "…do such a thing again…I will hit you…so hard…that your grandchildren…will feel it!"

I staggered backwards, finally catching myself against a stalagmite. Some fraction of my wits returned. "Will you kindly stop pushing me!" I roared back.

"No!" She shoved me again. "Why did you go alone?" Another shove, closer to the edge of the water. "Why did you not wait for anyone to follow you?"

I tried to fend her off, but she seemed to have more arms than an octopus. "Would you have preferred that we all die instead of just Xanos?" I managed to say.

Her eyes bulged. "Xanos, you utter…absolute…stupid person!" she shouted, and pushed me backwards into the water.

Icy water closed over my head. The shock of hitting it seemed to restore a few more of my wits. I resurfaced, coughing. "I think you mean idiot," I gasped. "Or ass. Stupid person…too long for a good insult."

"I know what I mean!" she bellowed. She had an impressive set of lungs. An impressive set of everything, really. "You are not here to get yourself killed! I forbid you to get yourself killed!" Her voice rose to a credible imitation of a banshee's shriek. "If you get yourself killed, I will kill you myself!"

My coughs turned into laughter. "Ah…princess?" I said, treading water. In an abundance of caution, I floated backwards, taking my face out of kicking range. "There seems to be a flaw in your logic somew-"

Her scream cut my words off as well as her sword had cut the derro's head off. "Shut up!" She took a deep breath. Her breasts rose and fell like an empire. "_Never_ do that again," she growled. "Do you hear me?"

My mouth opened and closed. "I think they can hear you in Murann." My voice sounded surprisingly meek to my own ears. I tried to drag my eyes up to her face. They kept drifting back down. The effort of keeping them where they belonged seemed to be generating some kind of nervous tic in my left eye.

She frowned at me. "I am serious."

I coughed, covering a laugh. "So am I."

Her frown deepened. She folded her arms across her chest, thank the gods for small favors. She still did not seem aware of how much her wet clothes were giving away. I was not volunteering to tell her. I had already been screamed at enough for one day. "Well? Do you intend to come out of there?" she asked.

The water was ice cold and it concealed me up to the neck. "No," I said meditatively. "No, I think it is best if I stay where I am."

Alarm flashed across her face. She took an anxious step forward. "Why? Are you unwell? Injured?"

I did seem to be experiencing some inconvenient swelling, but I did not think it qualified as an injury. Except, perhaps, to my dignity. "Never better," I lied. On top of everything else, I was also beginning to shiver. I needed to get out of the water. I also needed clothes, and... "Where is my robe?"

She paused. "I…left it," she admitted. She drew a hand through her hair, visibly embarrassed. "I could not think of a way to carry it and swim at the same time. I am sorry."

_Hells._ I had left my bag of holding in there. "I will get it. Wait here," I said tersely. I sucked in a breath and dove.

My eyes adjusted quickly, and the shivering eased as I moved. The tunnel was not far, nor was it long. I passed through it quickly, trying not to touch the rocks that protruded from its sides like teeth. I did not want to risk shifting them by accident and bringing the whole damned thing on my head.

On the other side of the tunnel, I entered a world where pale fish flitted through shifting, shimmering shades of gray. The water streamed pleasantly over my skin. I felt clean and weightless and, for just a few moments, bizarrely at peace. It reminded me of the times spent in another lake, this one with surrounded by craggy peaks and marching rows of pines. The lake near Hilltop had been a startling shade of blue-green and almost flawlessly clear, so much so that I could stand on its edge and see the round white rocks that made its bed.

The memory was a surprisingly happy one. It occurred to me that I had very few happy memories, and that most of them, now that I was thinking about it, centered around Hilltop.

It was startling to realize that I missed the bloody place. It had only been a sleepy mountain town and half the villagers had smelled even more strongly of sheep than the sheep themselves, but it had been…peaceful. Safe. In Hilltop, I had been able to breathe, albeit shallowly.

_I miss that bloody dwarf, _I thought suddenly. My throat burned. I needed air. I kicked my way towards the surface.

A careful survey showed the lake cavern to be still and apparently empty, though I deflected the light around me again, just in case. My robe was still on the ground, along with the rest of my clothes. I retrieved my bag of holding from its pocket and shoved it into the bag together with my discarded shirt and boots. Then I slung the bag's strap over my left shoulder so that it rested on my right hip, turned, and slipped back into the water. Before going back under, I swam to the wall and erased my glyph. The less signs Thimm had to follow to find us, the better.

As I did these things, I wondered how much to tell Nadiya of her weapon's true nature. I did not like having a mage killer so close to me, and was tempted not to reveal its secret, just in case she turned it on me. On the other hand, she needed my help far too much to do such a thing. No doubt that was why she had reacted as she had to my difficulties with the derro. My power and my training were her biggest assets in this quest of hers. She could not afford to lose them. On the other _other_ hand, however, if Nadiya did not know what her sword could do, she might not use it to its full potential, and we were in a dangerous place. It made no sense to hobble her.

My decision made, I returned to the derro's cave and pulled myself out of the water, shivering. The cavern had gotten smokier still, although the ceiling was high enough that the smoke was not yet a concern at ground level. Brown and Nadiya were exploring the place, Nadiya with one hand over her nose. When she saw me, she squeaked and turned away so quickly she risked rupturing the tendons in her neck. "We, ah," she began, and stopped to clear her throat. "We were looking for a way out. Up, I mean. A tunnel. Out. From here."

I stared at her back, my mood turning sour. _Ah, yes._ I had nearly forgotten that, or perhaps erased it from my memory. Some people were modest about disrobing in front of others or vice versa, gods knew, but was it really necessary for her to turn away with such obvious revulsion?

_You should be used to it, Xanos_. And I supposed that I was. _Ugly greenskin_ was a well-known refrain to me. I had learned early in life to have no expectation that I would be anything other than an orc to human women and a human to orcish women, and thus palatable to neither. She-orcs would view me as pale and weak, and as for human women...well, some women preferred their meat red, but no sane woman liked her meat green. So to speak. I had long since concluded that I was better off devoting my energies to the mastering both the art of sorcery and the art of taking cold baths. But Nine _Hells_, her reaction still stung.

Grimly, I slipped the bag off of my shoulders, dried as best I could, and retrieved my clothes. No doubt she would be pleased to have the offending sight of me rendered slightly less offensive. No use in arguing. It would just be even more humiliating. "Any luck?" I asked as I dressed. My voice was tight.

Brown lumbered over, beaming. He was walking on three legs and clutching something in his right forepaw. "Well, no tunnels so far. But we found sparklies!" he said happily. He extended his paw and unfurled his claws for me to see. Gemstones glittered under a layer of filth. "They were in the piles of yuck. He was hiding them, I guess. Diamonds in the rough! Well, and emeralds and rubies and, oh, all sorts! And they weren't really in the rough. It wasn't rough. Smooth, actually. And really, really yucky. Did I mention yucky? But I'm sure they'll clean up nice. The gems, I mean. Not the piles of yuck. I don't think anything but a controlled burn will make those better." The dragon lowered his hand. "What do you say?" he asked eagerly. "Are they mine now? Can I keep them?"

I buttoned my robe, bemused. It was quite strange. I could not seem to reconcile my eyes with my brain. The former told me that I was speaking to a magical creature the size of a small cow. The latter told me that I was being importuned by a precocious toddler. "How will you carry them?" I asked.

The dragon's face fell. Then it perked up again. "In your bag," he said. "Um." He glanced down at his hand. "After washing them off, of course."

I carefully kept my face straight. "Hmm. I see." I adjusted my shirt cuffs and made my expression stern. "And what will you give me for this service?"

The wyrmling squirmed. "Um. I'll…let you have one of them?" he asked. He looked at my face. His voice became a hopeful, uncertain wheedle. "Um. A few? Half? How about half? Will you take half?"

I gave up on keeping a straight face and laughed in spite of myself, shaking my head. "Ye gods," I said. I retrieved my bag, wound its strap around it, and slid it back into its usual pocket. "How did you work for Ghufran and still end up being such a terrible negotiator?"

The dragon shrugged. "Dunno. I suppose I just didn't pay close enough attention." Like a compass needle swinging back to point North, the dragon returned to his former subject. "So, how about it? Can I keep half?"

I shrugged. "I have no objection, and their former owner appears to have nothing to say on the subject," I said. I gave the dragon a meaningful stare. "But you are the one who is digging them out. And we cannot linger here, so make your selections quickly."

Brown's jaws parted into a toothy grin. "Wonderful! I promise, I'll be quick as lightning." He turned. "Oh, goodness. Where do I start? Ooh, this one looks good." He hobbled off.

Nadiya watched him go. She seemed to have decided that it was now safe to risk looking at me. "I thought dragons simply…took things," she said. "For their hoards."

I shrugged and walked past her. The cavern filled with the sound of industrious digging. My eyes scanned the walls for obvious signs of tunnels. "He is doing so now."

"Without asking first, I mean."

I laughed shortly. "I find that I am learning a great deal of very surprising things about dragons lately."

"I see." Nadiya followed me. From the corner of her eye I saw her reach into her belt pouch. "Here," she said, holding out my necklaces. "These are yours." She produced a golden ring with a ram's head crest. "And so is this."

I took the necklaces and slipped the ram-headed ring back onto my finger, where it belonged. "That reminds me. Do you know where my…no, I suppose you would not." I raised my voice as I clasped my amulets around my neck again. I felt better almost immediately. "Wyrmling!"

The dragon's voice came back from behind a shit pile. "What?"

"Where is my necklace of fireballs?"

The digging noise stopped. "Oh."

"'Oh' is not a location, wyrmling. It is an interjection. Please try again."

The answer came very slowly. "I, um. Used it. On the Zhentarim."

I blinked. "What, all of it?"

The dragon's head appeared from behind a heap. He looked shamefaced. "Yes. Sorry. Was that bad?"

I considered that. "Did you get many of them?"

Brown cocked his head. "I think I did. It was a little hard to see. I was high up and there was smoke and I was moving as fast as I could."

"Ah. Well, in that case I think we can call it an acceptable loss." The prospect of several dozen crispy Zhentarim did warm my cold black heart. I stepped around another dung pile, continuing my inspection. There was a gap in the stone further up that looked promising. I headed for it. "Speaking of magical artifacts," I said over my shoulder to Nadiya. I kept my voice neutral, though for some reason I wanted to roar and gnash my teeth at her. "We must speak of yours."

She nearly tripped over a fish carcass. "Mine?" she asked, plainly startled.

"Yes. Your scimitar. It is a mage killer." A glance at her face revealed a singular lack of comprehension. "A sword that breaks spells on contact," I clarified.

Comprehension dawned. "So that is why…" She trailed off, her eyebrows furrowing. "There are stories about Al-Rashid fighting magic," she said slowly, haltingly, as if working her way through some difficult line of thought. "He fought the sorcerers of N'asr." She looked at me and flushed. "At least…he fought sorcerers. After Netheril fell but…before he led our tribe to the oasis, I think. I remember stories about mages who tried to enslave us. He…the stories say he killed them. I…do not know if that is true."

"It is possible. It was a war over resources and there were many refugees living on the ground – non-mages who hoarded what they could and defended it from any mage who tried to take it. Perhaps your ancestors were one such a group." I nodded at the scimitar that hung from the woman's hip. "If your al-Rashid fought with that, no doubt he was quite effective at persuading wizards to look elsewhere for their grain and water," I said. I conjured and sent up a mage light to investigate another opening that lay slightly above head height. It looked promising. I stopped, looking up. The wall was too sheer to climb, though the tunnel looked of a height where, if I anchored my feet with some webbing and reached over the edge, I would be able to pull the others up behind me – assuming Brown was human at the time. That just left the matter of my getting up there in the first place. "Though he was also quite the hypocrite."

"A hypocrite?" Nadiya sounded indignant. "Why would you say such a thing?"

I turned to her. "The only way to dispel magic is with magic," I said. "A spell of dispelling, to be exact. Al-Rashid may have killed mages, but he obviously did not hate them enough to turn down an enchanted sword." I smiled thinly. Her brother had coerced me into helping their tribe with their little lich problem, and now his sister was doing a very similar thing. "It seems that your tribe is not averse to using magic when it suits them."

She winced and lowered her eyes at my words. "Sweet spirits." Her voice was weak.

I arched an eyebrow at her. "Are you planning to throw your weapon away, now that you know what it is?"

Nadiya lifted her eyes, scowling. "I have not thrown _you_ away, have I?" she asked tartly. "And you are far more magical than any sword." For some reason, her face reddened as she said those words.

She had not thrown me away, that was true, though what she would do when I had played my part for her and it was time for her to return to her tribe…that remained to be seen.

I bit back a sigh and turned. "Wait here," I said, and pictured a window in my mind. I filled it with the void, a sense of something black and sucking and endless. Then I focused on the tunnel, trying to form a sense of its distance from me and its depth as well as other, less measureable things, such as the slight movement of air and the feel of rock within arm's reach and the musty smell of damp caverns.

I let power bleed through the window in my head, and stepped through. For a split second, I found myself in a shadowy half-world where everything was distorted and strange, the air was so cold it felt like knives, and every sound was distant and muffled. Then color and sound returned, and I found myself standing in a narrow tunnel.

I looked around. There were crystals growing from the walls, and the floor had a pronounced upward slant. The tunnel went on into blackness for some distance. Somewhere, water dripped. From the way it echoed, it was not immediately nearby.

I heard a voice from below. "Xanos?"

I was tempted to walk away without a word. Not that I could go far before the geas pulled me back, but still, I was tempted. Instead, I went to the edge and looked down. Nadiya stood below, peering up at me. She looked very small and somehow lost. This was, I reflected, even less her place than it was mine. At least I had had training in this sort of thing, and several years of surviving alone in the wilderness besides. She had always been kept sheltered in her little oasis. "I am here," I said, sighing again. The bloody woman really would be the death of me, I knew it. "Call the dragon. Tell him I think I have found a way out." I looked back into the tunnel's winding recesses. Gods knew where it led. I only knew that we could not go back, only forward. That, and hope like the Hells that we had not traded our deaths at Thimm's hands for our deaths at the hands of some Underdark enemy - or long wandering and slow starvation. "Or at least…a way up."


	50. Chapter 50

Just to let my readers know, I'm not dead. Neither is Witchlight. It is, however, about to slow down again. This coming semester is shaping up to be a doozy, with ten to twelve-hour days on campus and a lab rotation under a notoriously difficult professor who expects us to be on-call both nights and weekends. I'd hoped to at least have August free for writing, but a flood of pre-term reading and prep work has punctured that particular illusion.

I'm in a pre-emptive panic and, while I'll keep plugging away at Witchlight, I can't sacrifice my academic work for it, so the updates are going to come much more slowly for the next few months. Please bear with me. I promise that we WILL eventually see the end of this story, even if I have to write the last chapter while locked in a padded room.

In the meantime, settle back, have some cookies, and send some, "Don't worry, you'll be fiiiiine." vibes my way.


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